PS 635 2>*= 

.29 \f2-^^^ 
M282 

copyi ROWN BESSIE 



Drama in Jour vlrts. 



By F. E. ware. 



KEW YORK: 

JOHN F. TROW & SON, 

PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS, 

209 East Twelfth Street. 

1874. 



BROWN BESSIE 



Diania in loiiv 2lcts. 



By F. E. WAliE. 



NEW YOllK: 
JOHN F. TROW & SON, 
PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERSfcffi?: 
209 East Twelfth Street. 



BKOWN BESS IE. 3 J^ 

A Drama in Four Acts, r \$ 



PERSONS REPKKSBNTED. 



OPCAT; .\L:\rA. — litisi; ujkI lovev of Mercy Wilde. 

R.VriA'I'OIJ.— (,'(,ij(lur1or (if opera. 

1'11()MA8 'I'KiJIJRI.N'liTON. — English geiitleiiian, aged seventy. 

SIR Wli.LIA.M AVl'M/roN.— Kr.sflisli gentleman, aged fiftv. 

LiiDYAKD ^I'H0R]ITNGT0N.— Nephew and heir to Tlionias. 

JACK HINTONj — Companion to Ledyard. 

■J)I';AC0N WILDl-:.— Supposed i'athor to Mercy— fanner. 

J(lll\ JJUCEMAN.— I'arnier, father to Brown Bessie. 

SIAJF, LI-'/PHRiUdE.— Boston rough— Captain of Kniglits of tlie Red Crescent. 

MAXWICIJ.— r.arlceeper, ) 

l)i:XVll,LE LOWBURY, VK'nishts of the Order of tlic Red Crescent. 

RAB WE'J'}ri',RBB. ) 

T;n()\\'X T.J'.SSIE. — A chilli of creat vocal powers. 

JIEltOV VVIBDE.- Village beauty. 

jAlADAM BAllATOLI.— Mother of the conductor. 

JIADAM EiLVA.— Jealous Prima Donna. 

PAULINE.— Niece of Baratoli. 

RACHEL SNOW.— Country gossiji. 

MR. JOHN STITAVKLL.— Enurlish gent. 

MRS. ELIZA STILWELL.— AVife of the above. 

OLD MEN, VILLAGERS, &c. 

COSTUMES. 
OSCAR ALMA.— (o) Hnnting-snit of green: straw hat. 2d. Gentleman's suit of 

black. 3d. Einb"d blue cloak, trunk.s. and white vest. 
SEIGNIOR BARATOLI.— (8) Dressiug-gown and slippers. 2d. Suit, cmb'd 

green cloak, white vest, and trunks. 3d. Ocutleuian"s .suit of black. 
THOMAS THORlMNfiTON.— (1 ) Gentleman's travelling -suit. 
LEDYARD THORRINGTON.— (2) Gent's travelling suit. 2d. Suit of black. 
SIR WM. AYELTON.— (3) Gent's travelling suit. 2d. Suit of black. 3d. Enib'd 

crimson cloak, trunks, and white vest. 
JACK HINTON.— (21 1st. Travelling suit of brown. 2d. Suit in black. 
DEACON WILDE.— (2) 1st. Farmer'.s suit of blue : broad, white colhir and .straw 

hat. 2d. Suit in black. 
JOHN DIKEMAN.— 1. Fanner's suit of blue. 
WILL LITTLKFtEId).— 1. F^irmer's suit of blue. 
MARK KENDIilCK.— 1. Earuier's suit of blue. 
SIME LETlIRHHrE.- 1. (icntlcniau's suit of black. Rcgnlia of (he Knights of 

the Red Crescent, a scarlet scarf thrown across the left slioulder j'astened 

with a silver crescent on the shoulder ; a silver star on left breast. 
JIAXM'ELL. — 1. Farmers suit, scarlet scarf and crescent. 
DIONVILLE LOWBURY'. — 1. Farmer's fuit, Kcarlet scarf and crescent. 
RAB Wl'/l'HERBE. — 1 Farmer's suit, scarlet scarf and crescent. 
mi;,. JOHN STUAVELL.— (2) 1st. Cient's suit of black. 2d. Page's suit of blue. 
UROWN BESSIE.— (•)) Country dress of faded calico, hat and shawL 2d. Dress 

of crimson emb'd in goid. 3d. Travelling suit in black, straw bonnet, and 

shawl. 4th. Wiite satin cr silk sjiangled with silver. 
MERCY WILDE.— 1st. White dress and pink ribbons. 2d. Travelling suit. 3d. 

Pink dress cmb"d in silver. '1th. Rich white silk, diamond ornaments. 
MAD\JM BARATOLI.— Black velvet, studded with silver poiiit-Iace. 2d. Suit 

tiavelliug dress in black, bonnet and shawl. 
MADA M ELVA.— 1st. Suit blue silk, iilain. 2d. Suit orange silk, emb'd in silver. 
PAULINE. — Ist. Suit piu-ple silk, plain. 2d. Scarlet satin or silk, emlVd in gold. 
R.VCHEL SNOW. — 1st. Gingham di-ess. white apron and cap. 
INIRS. WILDE. — Plain bhu^k dress, white apron and cap. 
ilRS. SI ILWELL. — 1st. Suit morning robe in pink. 2d. Black lace, starred 

with i.ilver. 
I'RfJPERTIES.— Apples- a pack of cards— a turkey- 2 bottles of brandj'— 2 pis- 
tols — 2 lantenis — a bracelet — books — a scaffold with rope — a pocket Bible — 

dinner- horn — cradle — mug of cider — glasses — dusting-brush — rope^ — packing 

boxe.s— picture.s — easel — 2 jewel-case.s — jewels, etc. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year IST-l, by 

L. D. SHEARS, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



TT l« r> «-« *» /% /■> -7 C A O 



BEOWN BESSIE. 



ACT I; 

Scene I. — ^1 Forest in 3TasgachuscUs. 

Enters BuowN Bessie, lolth honnet in hand. 

JDessie. Isn't it deliglitfnl, tlio', to run off by one's 
se^f in tiie cool, quiet wood — and not a soul near to 
scold or find fault. Oh, if I had oiily l)een Eve, though, 
with all this wide world to myself, I reckon Avhen ]Mr. 
Adam came around to })op the question he'd have got 
the mitten — that he would. [ioo/is 7i]> in the trees.^ 
How happy the dear birds are, singing so liieriily. I can 
sing too, and they all like to hear me. [^Sin(/s. 

Enter Alma iinperceived, listens. 

Alma. Hilloa ! my Jittle songster, who in the name of 
all that is wonderful are you ? 

JBessie. \JMoking frightened.^ Oh, J'm only Brown 
Bessie ; that's all. 

Alma. '[Taking her ha,nd.~\ And that's considerable, 
according to my way of thinking. But who taught you 
to sing '? 

JUessie. The blue ])irds and the robins up yonder ; they 
like to hear me. 

Alma. So do I ; and so will all the world if you will 
but give them the opportunity. Oh, if Seignior Bai-atoli 
had such a voice to cultivate, he would astonish the 
world. 



4 BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. 

JJessie. And wlio is this Baratoli ? 

Alma. The world-renowned tenor ! Have you never 
lieard of him, my little girl ? 

Jjessie. Never, sir ! I hear nothing but cross words and 
threats, and taunts of my own ugliness, from Jiiorning till 
night ; except when I run away into tlie Avood, as I have 
done to-day. Then when I get here in the cool refreshing 
shade and hear the soft nuisic of the stream and the sweet 
songs of the birds as they warble in concert for me, I for- 
get my troubles for an hour and warble with them. Oh 
dear ! I wish 1 could always live right here in the wild 
wood, no more dishes to wash, no scrubbing, no house- 
work, but rest and song the whole day long. 

Alma. [Af^'uh.^ Here is a treasure for some one. I've 
half a mind to take her myself; but alas! what can a poor 
penniless artist do towards maintaining and educating a 
little wildliug like this ? 

To liessie. I say, little songstress, if you will coax 
your friends to take you to New York, and ]>ut you under 
the instruction of Seignior Baratoli, you will soon iind 
yourself famous. 

Jjessie. Oh, that would be delightful. But then — papa 
will never let me go; and S.dly — she beats me if I open 
my mouth. 

Alma. And who the deuce is Sally? 

Jjessie. Oh, she's my handsome sister. 

Alma. I'd like to catch her nasusiug you, my little 
bird-charmer ; come ! sit down, and let me make a sketch 
of you. [Draios a book and j:>encil from Ids 2'>ocket. 

Jjessie. Oh, no ; that might not^ be light ; and whether 
right or wrong, I sliall be sure to get a beating if it is 
known. [^1 voice calls JJessie.^ Oh dear, that is Sally ! 
Let me go ! 

Alma. What a virago she must be, to inspire you with 
such fear ; here is my address. [ Gives her a card. ] Tliink 
over what I have told you ; then if yon desire to place 
yourself under the care of my friend, apply to me at once, 
and I will assist you. 

liessie. I am very gratefid, sir. [yj. voice calls Jjessie.] 
Oh dear ! if that isn't papa. Bun, sir, }»leasc run ; or I 
shall be beaten. 



Scene 11.] BROWN BESSIE. 5 

Alma. Farewell then, little bird-charmer. [Asi<h.^ I'll 
hasten home and take a .sketch from memory. \^JExd. 

Enter John Dikemax. 

•John. What are you doing here, you lazy little good- 
for-nothing, idling away your time wdien we are waiting 
for dinner. [ (J-rasps her. 

J^essie. Oh, papa, please don''t beat me ; I only stopped 
a moment to rest and sing. 

tTolin. I'll teach you to sing a difterent song ; that I 
will. [Jlorn sounds / enter vjorhnen.\ You go to dinner, 
boys, while I flog the gal ! 

\^Exit tTolin, draf/(/ing Ijessie after him. 

1st Workman. The brute ! The haiil-hearted old cur- 
mudgeon ! He deserves to be raw-hided himself ! 

2il IVvrkmau. I say, let's do it, boys, if he ever lays 
liands on her again. 

All. Agreed ; we'll be ready for him. 

1st Workman. He abuses his wife too, boys, and a 
smarter or prettier woman warn't to be found in these 
diggin's than she when he married her. 

All. We'll lick him for that too. [Jlorn. sounds. 

1st Workman. Blow your old horn a,nd be hanged to 
you, you old miser; we'll show you how it feels to be 
cudgelled, if you don't let that poor gal aloiie. 

[Exit all. 

Scene IT. — Village Green / JSIercy knitting under a tree. 

Enter Bessie. 

Jjessie. Dear Mercy, I'm so glad to see you once more. 

[Emhrace. 

JSIercy. And haven't I been watching for you this whole 
long week V (Had to see me, truly ; but you look sad, 
dearest. Pray what is the matter ? 

• Sessie. Only the same old story of father's injustice 
and Sally's cruelty. 

3Iercy. Poor child ! but this shall not continue. I will 
speak to my father or Parson Beverly to-night. 

Jtessie. [Shaking her head.] It will do no good ; 
any interference only subjects me to greater cruelty. 



C) BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. 

Yesterday I was sent to fetcli a stray cow from the forest, 
when, who should I meet, but the very beautifulest yoniig 
man I ever put my eyes upon ; he asked me my name and 
all sort of questions. 

3Iercy. Had you never seen him befoi-e ? 

J3essle. No, and T never expect to again ; he told me I 
could make a fine singer if I would practice ; and he gave 
me his own name on a card ; but Sally found it oiit and I 
had to destroy it to keep it from her ; then I got such a 
beating from papa that I can scarcely move. 

Mercy. Poor, poor child ! if I could only tell Mr. 
Beverly. 

JBessie. It would only draw the chains tighter about 
me. If I could only go to New York and learn to sing 
well enough to earn my own living by my voice. 

Mercy. \_Clt(sping her hands and looking horrified.^ 
Don't think of going away off to that awful city. Why, 
Bessie, it's one of the very wickedest jdaces that ever was 
known, except Sodom in the Bible. I've heard jia aud 
the gentlemen tliat have been there say so. They always 
hurry away just as soon as they get tlieir business done, 
for fear they will be waylaid and murdered. 

J3essie. Well, Avell ; quiet your fears, dear Mercy, I 
didn't say T' intended to go ; tho' I don't believe all they 
say about the city being so very wicked : and as to the 
gentlemen all hurrying away — it's no such a thing. There's 
parson Beverly always goes to Barnum's Museum when 
he's down to attend the Tract Society meetings, I've heard 
him say so myself, and he's a good, pious man, I'm sure, 
but I must go. 

Mercy. Pray don't go, darling Bessie — at least not 
till you have sung that favorite melody of mine. 

yj^essie sings, standing with Iter bonnet in her hand/ 
Mercy, affected to tears, covers her face. 

JBessie. \_Aside?[ She little thinks this is our last meeting. 

I Will Littlejield approacltes.^ Bless me, there comes that 

clown Will. \^lLxit JSessie. 

\_^Vill Tjittlefield, vntli straw hat filled tvith apples, 

advances cautiously to Mercy'' s side and jiours 

them at her fieet. 

Mercy. [J'umping.] Oh my ! AVill ! how you did 
frighten me ! 



ScRMElI.J BROWN P.ESSIE. 7 

Wm. Did 1 ? AVell, then, I'll take it all back ! 

3f<'.i-c)/. But where is Bessie ? 

M'^iU. Gone home, of course, as any se)isible girl would, 
[^l.svV/e] leaving the field clear to me. [ 7b Jlercy.^ You 
see, Mercy, I've brought 3'ou a few of our golden sweets 
— come clear over here on purpose. 

Jferci/. ^Selecting one.^ Yes, I see, Will, but you 
don't expect me to eat all these, I hope. 

WilL I reckoned you'd stow away considerable of a 
))ile, but that ain't neither liere nor there, Mercy ; so pitch 
in and don't be bashful. 

Jferci/. You'ri! a clever fellow, Will, and no mistake : 
how is your mother and the deacon ? 

Will. The deacon, he's tolerable ; but the old woman's 
enjoyin' a terrible cold. I say^ Mercy, wouldn't you like 
to j)op down to Johnson's to a (|uiltinj; frolic to-night. 

J/erc//. Thank you. Will ; l>ut don't think I can make 
it cornenient. 

IFt'//. Aren't sot agin sich things as quiltin' ])ees and 
apple [)arin's and the like, just because you've jined the 
church, are you V 

Merc>/. No, Will ! 

IVilL Maybe yovi don't like it because I took Sail 
Dikcnnan out to Baymount last ±th July ? 

3Iercy. On the contrary, I was ])leased with it — hope 
yoii'U favor her with your compaiiy again. 

WW. Not by a darned sigiit. The fact of tlie business 
is, I came down here, Mercy, to ax you ; but taking the 
])ercussion to peep through the window before rap})in', 
who should 1 see but a tall, dandified, chap sittin' so con- 
cerned close to you, a jtibbering away and casting sheep's 
eyes so mighty often at you, that 1 curlapsed, I did, and 
in mighty short order tu. 

JMiTci/. Oh, that was onlv Cousin J(v.'. 

WM. Maybe; but it looked like j»ui-ty darudl warm 
cousening to me ; 1 s'poso you wouldn't have gone if l'(.l 
spunked uj) and asked you V 

jLercjf. No ! 

Will. Sure you don't feel hurt, nor nolhin', at my askin' 
Sail ? 

3lerci/, No, no ! not in the least. 

Will. Fact is, Mercy, every fellow in town is in love 



S BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. 

with you up tu the very l^riui, and you know it tu ; if 
yovi du look so down-kind-uv-cast, but tlicre aren't one in 
the whole posse of 'cui that loves you as I du. 

Mercy. Indeed ? 

^Vill. No indeed ! When I see you a comin' intu 
meetin', a lookiu' so modest like, with them pink ril)l)ins 
a Ihitterin' about your ]ti]d<^er cheeks, I feel just iis if you 
was a Ijig hunk of maple sugar, and I could swallow you 
at one gob. [ Opens his niouth. 

J^Iercy. Y'Tumpi-'ty hock a ^>«c'e or two.] Oh, don't, 
Will! 

Will. I love you well enough to eat you up, but I'm 
not a'goin' tu du it yet, so don't be scared. You see, 
Mercy, our folks want me to get manled and take the 
farm; so 1^ reckon it will suit them if we manage to hitch 
bosses 'bout Christnuis. [Chucks her tinder the chin.] 
Wliat do you say to that? 

3Iercy. [lUsiiK/ -iiiifh diyuity.] I sav no, sir ! 

Will. No? ■ 

Ifercy. No ! 

\ \Vill piickers up liis face awl makes a doleful at- 
tempt to cry as lie sees Mercy start for liome. 

Will. I say, Mercy, it's too bad for yoii to go trottin' oti' 
in this kind of style when I come over on piirpose to tell 

you- 

Mercy. Wliy, Will, I thought you came over on })ur- 
pose to bring me golden sweets. 

Will. And I know of some gals as would consider me 
a golden sweet. 

Mercy. Indeed ! 

Will. Yes, indeed ; now you just wait and hear the 
nub of the story, Mercy, and I reckon you'll change your 
inind, 

Mercy. No, W^ill, not if your story has forty nubs. 

Will. \Puckers up) Ids face.] Boo, boo, boo! 

Mercy. \Aside?^ Poor foolish fellow! I'm truly sorry 
for him, but there is no help for it. \fWcdlcs off a few 
paces, turns.] I say. Will ! 

Will. yPeeriny oat from under his arm, aside.] She'll 
have me yet, I'll bet a grist of dad's best wheat. [ Walks 
lip to Mercy.] What is it, Mercy, darling; you see I'm 
a poor heart-broken critter — boo ! boo ! boo ! 



8CERE III. J BROWN BESSIE. 1> 

Jfrrc)/. \^Ext ending Iter Jtand.^ I only wanted to say 
we liad bcttcT part friouds. 

Will. \^2\(king Iter haiijl and exmnining it cv rioii sly .~^ 
Yes, Mercy, it's jest what I'd like. Maybe yon'll pop 
down to tlie (piilting with nie, if it's oidy to let folks know 
I haven't got the mitten ! 

Mercy. Well, 1 will go with you just for once; but you 
mustn't come bothering me again with your invitations. 

Will. Mercy, you'ie right down clever ! \^xiside?\ By 
Jui)iter! I'll get her vet ! 

Mercy. Good-day, Will ! 

Will. 'Si)ect I must say good-by if yo\i'rc bent on goin'. 
I shall be on hand bright and early for the quilting, so be 
ready in season. \Exil hoth. 

Scene III. — Draioing-room In residence q^f Deacon Wilde. 
Mercy engaged hi scioing. 

Enter Mrs. Wilde, all in ajiurry. 

]\frs. W. Sakes alive, Mercy, there's somebody coming 
up the lane. J declare I can't imagine who it is ! Do get 
u[) and see if you know him. [^1 ra]).] There! goodness 
me ; if he hasn't ra})p'd ! and here I am in my soiled apron 
and rum})led cap ! Do, Mercy, child, go and open the door 
while I iix up. [Jlercy 02>ens the door, loldle Mrs. Wilde, 
at the extremity of the room, smooths lier apron and cap, 
and adjusts her glasses. 

Enter Alma. Mercy bows and' offers a chair. 

3frs. W. Yes, sit down, do. 

Alma. Thank yon ; I am most hap})y to avail myself of 
yoiir kind ofiei'. 

Mercy. \Aside.^ What eyes ! W licit hair / 

3f7-s. TV. You look fatigued, sir ; have you travelled far ? 

Ahna. No, madam ; I am sto})ping at present in your 
village ; being by profession an artist I wish to sketch 
some of the tine views hereabouts, bvit I find poor accom- 
modations at the hotel. 

3Irs. W. INIaxwell keeps a miserable place, that is true. 

Enter Eaciiel Snow; looks inc/ulsitively at the arlist. 
1" 



10 BROWN BESSIE. [Act I. 

Uachel. Good moniiu', Miss Wildo; good mornin', 
Mercy ! I didn't know you'd got a nian here, or I wouldn't 
have come in. 

Mrs. W. Wliy, Rachel, I thought that was what 
brought yon over. 

Machel. I reckon you've took to judgin' others by your- 
self. 'S[)ect you're goin' to have your pictures painted, 
bein' you've got the artist here. 

Mrs. W. Law me ! aren't you the very one that's been 
paintin' the 'squire's picture ? 

Alma. Yes, ma'am ; the same. \^As'i<h / lookimj at 
Mercy. '\ Could I but transfer the beauty of your face 
to canvas, I should be the ha})piest of men. \^To Mrs. 
Tf^.] If you will direct me, madam, to some private fam- 
ily, where I may obtain a room for a studio, with board 
and lodging, I. shall be exceedingly gi-ateful. 

3Irs. W. There's our spare chamber, which is never in 
use at this season, and plenty of room at the table, if you 
will accept. 

Alma. I shall be only too Imppy. 

Uachel. I was going to say, sir, you might find better 
accommodations at my brother's, perha^is, but I s'})Ose it's 
of no iise now. 

Alma. Since this lady has been so kind as to olFer, 1 
am only too happy to accept. Perhaps, when you see my 
Avork, madam, you may be inclined to give me st>mething 
to do — that young lady's i)ortrait, for instance. 

\^Pointi)ig to Mercy. 

Mrs. TK That's the very subject Justice and I was 
talking over last night. Says I to the deacon, says I, 
" You're getting old, and there'll never Ije a better time for 
you to have your picture painted." You see we'd been 
over tu Squire Kcndrick's examining theirs. " That's all 
true enough, and I want yours," says he. " Then there's 
Mercy, just as handsome as a picture, and we shall both 
want hers," says 1. " Yes, and she will want both of ours," 
says he ; so you see you'll be likely to get a fair job- 
that is, if you're reasonable. 

Alma. You shall set your own price, ma'am. 

3Irs. ^V. Then it's a bargain, and you may move your 
tools over right away. 

Jiachel. [7ossiny her /lead, ^isldc.^ There's other folks 



Scene IV. j BROWN BESSIE. 1 1 

ill tlie village, I reckon, besides the Wildes. [ To Mrs. 
IVilde.^ I 'spect there won't be any chance for any one 
else to get pictures, now yon are going into it by the 
wholesale. 

3frs. M^. That's as you and this gentleman can agree. 

Alma, [^-iside.j Heaven protect me if I have her }>hiz 
to ])aint. 

To Mrtt. W. I will hasten my retuiii, that I may com- 
mence immediately on your portraits. [A low hoio to 
Mercy. Exit Alvta, Jiachel ISnow follow'm</ closely at 
his heels. 

Alma. [Aside.^ Aye, a smiling Providence brings me 
to dwell witli an angel ! Such beauty, such angelic love- 
liness ! 

Jtachcl. Was you speaking of me, sir ? 

Alma. You? The dev- . I beg })ardon. No, 

ma'am. 

liachel. 'Spect the Wildes will try to make you think 
there aren't anyljody else of any conse(pience in town. 
Good-day, sir I 

Alma. Good-day [^4,«i'/.-'], andaloug absence, I pray you ! 

Mercy. Dear mother, isn't he a s[)lendid-looking young 
man ? 

Mrs. AV. He wants shavin' terribly ! T can't tell how 
he would look with that black beard off. I shall offer 
him the deacon's I'azor when he comes, for I guess he 
must have lost his'n ! 

Mercy. Why, mannna, it's all the fashion for the gen- 
tlemen to wear inustachios and the like. 

BTrs. W. And a mighty foolish fashion it is, according 
to my ideas. I'd like to see your pa going around like a 
monkey, with a bushel of hair on his face, just because 
it's the fashion ! 

Scene IV.- — Qui' ting Party. — A larye room. 

Enter Will Littlefield and Mekcy, jMakk Kendrick, 
LowBURY, Wetherbe, Lethridoe, Rachel. Snow, a?id 
villagers geuerally. An old mam sits in the corner ^ Jiour- 
isldng noio and then a red silk handkerchief. 

JLcrk. [ With quilt in It is hand.j Come on, boys aiul 



12 CROWN BESSIE. [ActI. 

girls, lot\s give it a sliakc. [All gotJicr (iroiind, shake the 
qnllf; fold it, and then 2'>rc2) are for a dance. 

Will. C'nnn', wlio's for tlie (laiicc V \(\tf.<:hes Merey, 
ivuif Ivajlis her init\ form, for JDaul^U poUaC All except 
Itaehel aral old man dance. 

liachel. [ Tossing lier head as she goes to tJte old. nutn.^ 
Ah, liowmy heart aches to see these young peo[)le indulge 
ill such frivolous auuiseuionts. 

Old man. Heart aches because you didn't get aslced to 
join, Ivachel. 

Hachel. It's no such a thing. Do you s'pose I'd dance? 
I, a member of the clnu'ch ! No. There's Mercy Wilde 
settin' a poor example to the world's peojde ; but, thank 
heaven, it ain't me. 

Old. man. Yes, that Mercy's a likely gal, as was her 
mother before her ; a master pretty girl was Maggie ; cut 
you out with Justice too, Rachel, but you mustn't hold 
a grudge against her, for that's worse than dancing. 

Jiachel. [Aside.l^ Must that be ever thrown in my face ? 
Never, never will i forgive her ! [ 7b ohlinan.\ You for- 
get, dadda, I never would have married Justice Wilde ; 
no, no more than I would join in the sinful pleasure of 
dancing to-night. 

3Iercy. [To Will Litth field.] The lynx eyes of Eachel 
Snow are following me. No doubt she will go to Parson 
Beverly with a high sounding tale of my frivolity. 

W^ill. Never fear, Kachel — I'll fix her ; trust me for 
that. [ Will ivalhs lij:) to liachel. [Aside.] Deuce take 
the ugly old mischief-maker. 

[7h lictchel.] I say, Eachel, give lue your hand for the 
next dance V 

liachel. My dear William, I feel more like weeping 
than dancing. Don't you feel— 

Will. Yes, amazingly like joining in this quadrille. 
Dancing is a healthy recreation, ai)})roved of by the 
Church. [ Catches her vxdst and goes ivhirling oj/' in a 
waltz with her. 

Jiachel. Why, William, my dear William, you're crazy. 

Will. Not I. I always said you were built for a 
dancer. Aunt Eachel, isn't this glorious fun, now ? 

[Teads Jiachel to the old man and joins Mercy. 

Will. Let her prate now if she ])lease>s. 



Scene IV. J BROWN BE!>SIE. l-> 

Marry. I :iiu inul(:i- great obligations to you, Will, for 
extricating nie from that nn}>leasant dilemnia. 

WilL [.l.svi/^. I She's coming around, «uro as preachiu\ 
ril get tli(; handsome critter yet ! 

\l;^xit all hut Rachel and Mill. 

llachtl. Yon hnovv^, Vrilliam, that T feel a great inter- 
est in von, don't yon, d'jar ? 

Will. :is that so V 

Jlacliel. Yes, a very great interest in you ! 

Mill. You're a clever critter, liachel ! 

liacltd. I feel a very great interest indeed in you ; and 
I think if yoix would just leave olf running around after 
that Mercy Wilde, and look up some good smart girl, 
that would make you a good wife. 

Will. I shall never marry Mercy Wilde, Eachel, for a 
very good reason. 

Jidchel. I'm glad to hear you say that. Will ; it sounds 
like coming to your senses. There are a plenty of good, 
snl)stantial girls that would marry a good-lookin', well-to- 
do chap like you ; in fact, I may say I know of one, 
Will. You're joking, liacliel, I know. 

Jiacliel. Not a bit, AVilliam, dear. 

Mill. \^Aside, rolling his eyes.] W^illiam, dear! Lord, 
hel]) me ! 

Ixachel. I know you deserve a kirid, affectionate wife ; 
and it e'enamost breaks my heart to see you so alone. I 
— I — know of one, but I suppose it wouldn't be pro})er 
for a young woman — 

Mill. yAside, f aiming himself vjitli Ills ]iat.\ Young 
woman ! By Jemima ! I sliall faint after that ! 

liacliel. Like me to speak out in plain words. 

V/ill. [TiOoki)ig frigldened.J Lord, save us ! Perhajis 
it wouldn't. 

liachel. \JEdgin.g toioards Mill, vjJio edges off .] Dear 
William ! Can't you think of somebody you know who 
would make a loving, affectionate wife? You can, I 
know ! There's a dear man. ^^Pats him tivdcr the clii'ii. 

Mill. What kind of looking critter is she 'i 

Jiacliel. She looks like — like — oh, I can't, William. 

Mm. Then don't ! 

liachel. [ Tliowing larsclf in his ctrjns.] It's me, Wil- 
liam. 



I'i BROWN BESSIE. [Act 1. 

IVill. [Push tar/ Iter aivat/.] Get ont ! Get out ! 

[Bxit Will. 

liachel. The uiigratefxil wi-etcli ! But tluit'sju.st the way 
with all the men. I am resolved after this never to 
marry — never, never ! In blessed singleness I'll pass my 
days ! 

S;JENE v. — Hooin in J~olin Dlhemaii's cottage. — 3Irs. 
Dikeman sits rocking a cradle, has a hfthy in her arms. 
itTohn JJlkeman occujyies the opposite side of the room y 
two or three farm-boys around the table, on xohich is a 
tnug of cider. 

tTohii. At the age of twenty-one, hoys, 1 rnn in debt 
for this 'ere farm, and I married Miss Dikeman, there, 
for I ex})ected she'd tnrn in and helj) mc pay for it. 1 
can't say but what she did well enough foi' a year or tv/o ; 
but after that she began to run behind. Now we've been 
married eighteen year, coming this January, and she's 
had twelve children, a thing I didn't expect of hei-; but 
then she never did consider, \13ahy cries. \ Yon jist stop 
that youngern's mouth, will you. Miss Dikeman ? [^JJrinks 
from the mug.] Folks used to say my wife was the 
smartest woman in town ; but I haven't seen much of it 
late years, and a mighty disapjtintment it's been to me, 
too ; but what can you exjject of a woman that never 
consideis. \^_Bahy cries.'] Miss Dikeman, do you want me 
to tell you agin to stop that youngern's mouth ? \^J]oth 
babies cry. 3Trs. Dikeiaan seizes the baby in Vie cradle 
and rushes out of the room.] I've told her often ejiough 
slie must have quiet children ; but she will persist in 
having the noisiest youngerns in town, just to have her 
own way I s'pose. \I)rinks. Exit hoys. Clock strikes 
eleven.] Eleven o'clock ! I declare ; high time we were all 
of us in bed ; I hope Miss Dikeman'll have sense enough 
not to let that youngerii squall all night and keep me 
awake. \_Exit tfohn. 

Eater Bessie with hat and shawl on, and bundle in her 
ha ad. 

Hessie. All gone at last, leaving the way clear for me; 
Poor mamma ! how pale and worn she looked as 1 passed 
her door ! Oh, that 1 could take her with me, far away 



Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 15 

from the tyrant who dishonors the name of husband and 
father. But it cannot be ; innocent little ones need her care, 
if, in thus It'aving liome, 1 am doing wrong, may Heaven 
forgive. It is impossible for me to remain here longer 
and live. The blows of a fatlier, tlie taunts and insults 
of a sister, I can bear no longer. The words of the kind 
stranger whom I met in the wood have awakened in my 
heart a desire to be something more than a menial. Yes ; 
I will seek for the great Baratoli. Though I have lost the 
address of the young man who promised me aid, I will 
not despair, neither do I go out into the wide world alone. 
A kind, protecting Providence is still over me to guard, 
guide, aiul cheer me on my lonely pilgrimage. Farewell, 
parents, brothers, sisters all. 'I'hough 1 tind an humbler 
shelter, may I be blessed with more love. 



ACT IT. 

Scene I. — A dark cave lit by torches. — 7 aide in the 
centre, vnik bottles, glasses, and cards. — Jfaxwell, Letli- 
ridge, and Wetherbe sit round the table. 

Wetherbe. [Shu(fihii/ the cards.] Which shall it be, 
boys, euchre or seven upV 

Letliridye. Neither! I'm disgusted with three-hand 
games. Denville Lowbury is ripe for gathering, and he 
m\ist be brought in, boys. 

Wetlierbe. His love for Mercy Wilde has soft-soddered 
him, Lethridge. I tell you he is not tit for our kind of 
work. 

Lethridge. Not a bit of it. I've had expcriencj in that 
line myself. He'll come out all right. 

Wetherbe. And so have I, captain, to my sorrow ! Poor 
Annie. If she had listened to me I might have been — 
l)ut — heigh-ho ! [Turns out a glass of brandy ; drinks.] 
'Twon't do to moralize. 

Letlu-ldge. Annie is yours, this night, if you say so, 
Wetherbe! 

Wetherbe. Pray, explain, most worthy captain of the 
Red ! 



1 () BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. 

I^ethridge. Old Daniel Hart ami Lis Mifo have gone ten 
miles away to a canip-mectiiig, leaving Annie alone to 
guard the premises and take care of kei' su})erannuated 
grandpapa. Never were bolt or bar brought in use to 
guard the door to Daniel Hart''s cottage. Pull the bobbin 
and the latch will fly up. 

Wetherhe. Ah, you do not know her sjiirit. She will 
resist, scream in true woman fashion, and rouse the old 
man. 

Let]iri(l(/e. Gabriel's trump would scarcely rouse him ; 
lie's as deaf as an adder ; and as to resistance, 1 think my 
strength, with yours, will be all-suflicient. 

Wetherhe. But where shall I put her ? 
Letlvridge. A cage is already pre[)arod in the cavern 
adjoiuiug this. Annie is not the fii'st fair one who has 
found a resting-place there. The deacon's daughter may 
ere long come to keep her company, provided Lowbury 
throws the bait right. 

Wetlierhe. How? Explain yourself. 

Letlirulge. The girl will mitten Lowbury for the hand- 
some artist. Alma ; and in his desperation Lowbury will 
come to me, as he has often done before, for sym])athv ; 
I can easily draw him into our charmed circle by promis- 
ing to snare his dove. 

'Wetherhe. Ah! I see, 1 see; let's diink to his health. 

[.-[// drink. 

Letltrldge. And tluit is not all I intend to accomplish. 
I have a grudge against the })ious old deacon to feed, and 
in no way can I wound him so sorely as to kidnap his 
handsome daughter. [^-1 noise outside y torches extin- 
f/idslied y tuhle^ men, cImIvs, and all disa/f^j^ear through 
Jioor. 

Sl'Exe TI. — A7-ti><t''s studio at Deacon Wilde''s. — Canvas, 
2)a'pers, packlng-hoxes, and picttircs scattered around. 

Enter JMekcy Wilde. 

Mercy. Alas, he's going, and 'tis Sarah who is driving 
him away by her jcaltms freaks and whims. \ Discovers 
Hessie's portrait \ But v/hat do I see ! JJear, ttear 



Scene II.] 



BROWN BESSIE. IT 



Bessie ! So true to life that it seems as if the full, ripe 
lips were about to address inc. [Eider Alma uupcr- 
cfwed.] How full of so)-ro\v are those sweet, browu eyes ! 
Oh, Bessie, darling child, whither are you wandering? 

\j\^isscs the picture. 

yUma. [Aside.] What a compliment to my talent. I 
wish I were apicture, and yon served me thus, sweet ]\Iercy ! 

Merci/. [ Gazing around.] Alas, he is gt)ing, going— 
[Alma enters, Mercy screams. 

Alma. Bo not frightened, dearest Mercy, at my sudden 
ap])earance. [ ^«^^'t's /<er hand. 

Mercy. Let me go_, i)lease. 

Alma. No, never again, till I have told you how dear 
you have grown to this i)Oor heart of nune ; never, never 
again, till I tell you all my love— till T tell you how, in 
seeking to portray the jjliysical beauty of your face, I 
caught a gleam of the spiritual. I saw your soul's beauty 
shining through all, illuminating every feature, giving you 
that monetary beauty, that radiant expression, which took 
my poor heart captive. Mercy, darling, tell nie, have I 
loved in vain ? [3Iercy rests her head.npon his shoulder. 
lie steals his arm around her.] 

Enter Deacon Wii.]>e with 'pipe in his moutli, unjjer- 
ceived. Alma Jdsses Mehcy. 

Deacon Wilde. Thej'e, there, Alma, guess that'll do. 
I vow, if 1 don't Ijelieve you're better at kissing the gals 
than painting portraits ! 

Alma. Excuse nie, sir, but I was going to speak to 
you about your daughter. I — t*liat is— to say 

Deacon W. Ha, ha, ha ! Yes, I understand just liow 
that is — been the.re myself— stuttered and stannnered 
worse than you do, too ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Alma. i)o you give your consent ? May I hope? 

Beacon W. I rather like your spirit, young man, but 
there's one hitch in tlie machine. You are not a Christian 
— that is to say, of our sort. 

Alma. But I'll unite with your church. 

Deacon W. Not so fast ;. we want the genuine article- 
that is to say, the Simon pure— when we have a Christian. 
Now, I dare say, you don't even know the creed you'ie 
so readv to subscribe to. 



IS BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. 

Alma. But Mercy can teach it to me, and V\\ swear 
to believe every word. 

Deacon JV. Swearin' is against the rules of the church 
— -don't allow it, no iiow. [ 7t> Jferc)/.^ I s'jiose Massa, 
you've been just silly enough to fall in love with this 
fellow, and if I don't say yes to his suit, you'll break 
your lieart over it. 

JMercij. I'm afraid 1 shall. 

Deacon W. I s'pose your going to make a six months' 
journey to London with them pictures of yours. 

Alma. Yes, sir; and 1 want the assurance of your ap- 
probation before I leave. Your constrnt to ovir luiion — 
however distant the happy day — will help to make my 
journey al)road endural)le. 

Deacon Tl\ \^IL(iidin<l liira a pocJcct Dihle.^ There, 
take that with you, and study it carefully in your ab- 
sence. If in six months' time you return to us with the 
right heart, the right s[)irit, and still love my daughter as 
she deserves to be loved — why, she's yours ; and now 
Heaven bless you, my boy. \_£Jxit dcaco.i. 

Ali/ia. [Dlacinf/ rinr/ on 3Iercty s Jingor.] Keep this little 
circlet, dear Mercy, till I return, as an emblem of my 
love. 

Mercij. But v/hy go at all, dearest Alma ? 

Alma. I go that I may win both fame and a fortune — ■ 
to lay at your feet, love. I have two magniticent pictures 
— one, par excellence, which must be exhibited at the 
Crystal Palace in London. I challenge the world to pro- 
duce its equal — look you ! \^Vlrna draws ccside a covering 
and exhibits tJie ]jortra.it of Merci/.~\ 

Mercy. It is indeed beautiful, but not at all like me. 

Alma. It is su])remely beautiful, and very like yoi;. 
[Horn sounds.] There goes that confounded stage-horn, 
and I'm not half ready. [JiTisses Mercy, then commences 
packing , files first to one tiling, then another • Mercy en- 
denvors to help him. Horn sounds again. Catches 
Mercy by the waist and kisses her as he passes to strap a, 
box,' rolls up a p>arcel. Horn sov!nds third time. Drops 
parcel, gives Mercy a despera.te hug. I^tage-driver and 
Deacon Wilde appear in the door?^ 

Deacon. Come, come, young man, passengers grum- 
bling' outside. 



St'ENE III. J BROWN BESSIE. 19 

Alma. Yes, sir, ready in just one minute. 

\^Iyisses Jferri/ cujalii. Exit all. 
Enter Mrs. Wilde. Attempts to put thhujs to rlglUs. 

Goes to (lie toirulow and calls. 
Justice ! I say, Justice, you coine in here and help me 
move this big box. A pretty looking place this for a 
S2)are chaiuber, and coiu[)any coining to-night. 

Enter Deacon Wilde. 

Deacon. Well, Maggie, he's off at last, and I s'pose 
Massa'll spend the rest of the day in cryiug. 

J\Trs. Tl\ Yea, I s'pose so. Well, In; is a nice kind of a 
chap is Mr. Alma ; at first I didn't like all that brush 
around his mouth, but I don't mind it so much now. 

Deacon W. Don't you think, jMaggie, that we ought 
to tell her just how she came to us, and all about it ? 

Airs. TFi Deary me ! Justice, are you crazy ? Tell 
her ? No, it would be the death of her,- indeed it would ! 

Dearoii ~\Y. It's been on my mind for a long time, and 
it troubles uie, Maggie ! Surely, she is old enough now 
to be told what we kuow. 

]\[rs. TFi She never need to know anything about it. 
It can do her no good. Justice ; not the least ; so please 
keep your tongue in your mouth. [^Exlt both. 

Scene III. — ATeio ^\>rl\ — Dra.ir'u((j-'roo)n in Itonse of 
Daratoli. 

Enter Br;ssiE, unth <h sting brush, followed by MadAiAI 
Bakatoli. 

3£adam D. Now, child, see tiiat evei-ythiug is ))roperly 
arranged and dusted, for Madam Elva, the celebrated 
prima donna, is to return from the opera with Pauline 
and the Seignior. 

Dessie. \^ Courtesies.^ Yes, ma'am. \^Exit 3I(alam D.~\ 
Yes, here I am at last; a servant in the mansion of the 
great Baratoli. When his rich, full tones fall on my ear, 
he little dreams how they thrill my heart. ( >h that I 
could see the stranger who fiist mentioned his name to 
me ; I would fall at his feet and bless him. Though a 
servant, a menial, there is affection for me liei-e ; even 
the high-boiii Madaui looks kindly on me, and Baratoli is 



20 BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. 

pleaKunt :uk1 cniu'teons to all. But I must to my pi'ac- 
ticp ; lia ! tliey little dream Brown Bessie's fingers sweep 
the prarl keys of the i grand piano. It may be wrong, 
but I can't resist the temptation. [/Sits down and exe- 
cutes a simple air. While she is playhuj the door softly 
ojyens, and J3aratoli enters in dressing-yoicn and slipj'i'^rs. 
As Jie.ssie concludes ih", song lie adtKinres. 

Jiaratoli. My sweet warbler, pray tell me who you 



are 



9 



Jiessie. Forgive, oh, forgiAe me, sir. [^ittempts to kneel 
at Ids feet ; he raises her and takes her hand. 

Jiaratoli. Don't be frightened, child. Praj^ tell me 
who you are, and where you learned to sing so sweetly. 

Hessie. Oh, sir, I came from the country, far away. I 
was taught to sing by the birds of the forest ; I used 
often to run away fi'om home to the wood — for my father 
did not love me— and I would sometimes sing for hours 
with only the birrds to listen. One day a huntsman 
passing by chanced to hear my voice, and he told me of 
you ; s ) I started from home alone to find 3'ou. But I 
thought, on reaching this great, noisy city, I should never 
be able to make you out ; and when I did at last reach 
your mansion I was frightened by the splendor about me. 
I trembled when I beheld you, and T dared not make my 
wishes known ; so I became a servant here, that I might 
feast my soul with the music of your voice. 

JBaratoli. And what is your name ? 

Jiessie. Brown Bessie ; they said they gave me that 
name because I was so brown and ugly. 

Jiaratoli. Ugly, with those large, hazel eyes? You. are 
splendid, Bessie; henceforth you are my pupil. Your 
untaught melody has instructed me. 

Ji!nter Madam Bakatoli, Elva, and Pauline. 

Welcome, friends ; by remaining at home I have found 
a prodigy ; now 1 can show you what 1 mean by natuial 
execution. [J^ooks of envy 2J(t'SS between Patdine and 
JiJlva. ] Sit down, child, and give us one of your simple 
melodies. [Jiessie sings. \ 

Jiaratoli. You see her style is easy, natural, and grace- 
ful ; if willing, we may all be taught of her ! [Leads 



Scene IV.] 



BROWN BESSIE. 21 



.Bessie to his mother.'] To yoii, my clear inoilier, 1 
consign her ; let her be provided with everything neces- 
sary for her comfort ; she is henceforth my pu}>il. 

JIadam. Come, darling ! I hope my son will not be 
disappointed in you. You have a fine voice, but it needs 
cultivation. 

Bessie. I'll try my best to succeed, indeed I will ! 

\_Exit Madam B., Baratoli, and Bessie. 

Pauline. A protegee, indeed ; another silly freak of my 
uncle's. 

Mva. Ay, well may you frown. She is desthied to 
supplant you, both in your uncle's purse and his afiec- 
tion. 

Paidine. And you in the heart of the ^.ublic and the 
love of Baratoli ! ha ! ha ! Look to your own laurels, 
my dear ! 

.Elva. [Clenching her huQids.] She shall not live to 
see tha.t day ! I will invoke the powers of Satan to 
destroy her ! 

Pauline. By my soul, Elva, you have a countenance 
fitted to do the devil's work. 1 wish you success ! 

JElva. And you a coward's heart ; not too good to wish 
evil, but too weak, too womanish to execute ! 

Pauline. Thanks ! We appreciate each other. 

Scene IV. — Zondon, 1850. — Picture gallery of the Crys- 
tal Palace. — Portraits of 3Iercy Wilde and Broivn Be".- 
slf,_ — Alma stands beside a jfoliceman, ivho fastens a 
placard, " Not for sale,'" on the Xfortrail of Mercy. 

Alma. There, that will do ! I think now we shall be 
less annoyed by purchasers. 

Enter Ledyard Thokrington and Jack IIinton, arm in 
arm, Jack jwinting to 2)ortrait (f Mercy. 

J'acL I sav, there's a beauty for you, Ledyard ! 

Ledyard. \Aside.\ Great Heavens, my cousin Con- 
stance. [To policeman?^ Who owns that painting? 

Police. That gentleman, over there, sir {'pointing to 
Alma] ; but hit's not for sale ! 



22 BROWN BESSIE. [Act II. 

Xiedyard. By gay prince Hal, but I'll have it ! [.!(/- 
dresses Alma.'\ Is yoiider fine specimen from life, sir V 

Alma. It is ! 

J^eJycvrd. And the original, is she of English birth? 

Alma. No, sir, she is American ! 

Ledyard. May I ask 

Alma. I feel myself at liberty to say nothing farther, 
sir. [ Turns away.\ What surly dogs the English are ! 

Ltedyard. What unmannerly i)ups the Americans are ! 

Police. \Draicing Ledyard. aslde.^ Hi say, sir, what 
would you give to learn the whereabouts of yon lady in 
the frame ? 

Xiedyard. A five-pound note ! 

Police. Hit's ha bjirgnin. Step this way, sir ! 

Ledyard. Proceed, old cock, I'm listening. 

Police. Not till hi've seen the color of the chink ! 

Ledyard. Here, you rascal. [Drops a piece of gold in 
his hand'.] Now proceed, or I'll take the kinks out of you 
devilish qiiick ! 

Police. Her name is Mercy AVilde, the daughter of a 
yeoman living hin the town of Halderly, State of Massa- 
soit, continent hov Hamerica ! 

Ledyard. [Putting it down- in 'nicmora.ndura hoolc] 
Are you sure you're correct, old cock ? 

Police. Hi ad it from im as owns the pictui'e ! 

Old Gentleman enters^ and, walks toivards the picture. 

Jjedyard. By Jupiter ! if tlu'r(.' isn't uncle Tom, walk- 
ing stniighter than I've seen him these ten yeni-s. If he 
gets his eye on that picture I'm undone, or done up ! ( To 
police?^ I say, old chaj), you just hover around and hear 
what passes between my uncle and that dog of an artist. 
I'll ]>ay you well ! 

Police. Thanks, generous stranger; hime hall hat- 
tention ! 

J'ack. What 'pon earth is in the wind now, old boy ? 
At first I could scarcely get you into the picture-gallery 
at all, and now you are ready to give your fortime to 
possess the })ortrait of a country girl whom nobody knov/s 
or cares to know. 

Ljedyard. Listen, Jack, while I a tale unfold. You 



Scene IV. J BROWN BESSIE. 23 

know my uncle Tom, there, o]ice had a daughter, Con- 
stance. 

tTack. 1 have lieard as mucli. 

Ledyard. Well, she made a runaway match with a 
})oor sca})egrace of a music-teacher named Ayelton. My 
uncle succeeded in se[>arating them, and carried my cousiii 
away to America'. 1 suppose the separation broke her 
heart, for slio died soon after giving birth to a daughter, 
and, as the story goes, the daughter died with her ; but 
tliat part of it 1 will swear is false : for yon jiicture is a 
regular Thorrington, as much like the jiortrait of my 
cousin Constance, that hangs in Eildon Hall, as though it 
was painted from it. My uncle will say the same. He 
will search for the original, anil if she is found, as the 
next heir, comes in ahead of me for my uncle's })roperty. 

tTack. A\\\ I see. But what can you do? 

Ledijard. But for that graceless scamp of an artist I 
would have had it out of my uncle's way. Now there is 
nothing for me to do but to watch his moves, and be be- 
fore him in whatever he vmdertakes. I've got the j)olice- 
man un the scent. You follow them uj), too. Jack, and 
hear what you can. [f/tyr/j sU'iis near TliDinas TltorruKj- 
ton and Alina. 

Thomas. It's like seeing lier again, my precious, pre- 
cious Constance ! 

Alma. Calm yourself, sir. The original cannot be 
your granddaughter. I know her parents well — plain 
country people, of American birth. 

Thomas. But I tell j^ou it is my Constance's child. 
That Thorrington face convinces me of it. You look in- 
credulous ; but listen, sir. [ had a daughter, only and 
well beloved. She married withoiit my knowledge. I, in 
my wrath, separated her from her husband, and took her 
to America, She died while I was absent from her; for, 
having fallen ill of fever in New York, my wife left her 
to the care of her luu'se, and came to attend upon me. 
She died, and we were told the infant died also, and was 
buried with her in a ipiiet country village in Massachu- 
setts. I did not go to ascertain the facts of the case, but 
returned, heart-broken, home to England. That picture 
causes me to doubt the death of the child. I cannot die, 
I cannot even rest, till I am satisfied. 



24 BEOWN BESSIE. [Act II. 

Alma. I shiill soon return to America, and, if yon see 
fit to accompany me, will assist you as far as I am able in 
clearing up the mystery ; though I am satisfied you are 
wrong in your suppositions. 

Tlumas. Thanks for your generous ofljer. I shall avail 
myself of it. \^Aside.^ Oh, that I might find the daughter, 
and restore her to the place her mother once held in my 
heart ! On my knees would I ask forgiveness for the 
wrongs done her poor mother. [^:ki7 Tliomas. 

tTach. Yovi were right, Ledyard : he too sees a Thor- 
rington likeness, and is away with the artist on a wild- 
goose chase to Ameiica, as soon as the fair closes. 

Ijedyard. I miist be before him in this business. 
What say you to a trip across the Atlantic, Jack V ] must 
secure the damsel before he gets wind of her whereabouts. 

tfack. Just the thing for me, Ledyard : you know 1 
am fond of adventure ; but if you succeed in securing the 
beauty, what will you do with her ? 

Ijedyard. Put her out of my good uncle's way, or per- 
haps the safest plan will be to marry her myself, if she is 
as liandsome as tlie cross-grained artist represents. Then 
I shall make sure of the fortune, whetlior any uncle will 
or no. 

tTach. Oood ! I'm in for it. When do we set out? 

Lcdytwd. As soon as I can make the governor shell 
out. Won't he blow though, when I go in for another 
hundred ! Come, let's be olf, now that the thing is 
settled. \Exit Jack and Ledyard. 

Alma [ 7'o Police )iiait.'\ That portrait must bear a 
remarkable likeness to the old gentleman's daughter, 
judging from his aj^jpearance. 

Police. A singular circ\xmstance, very. 

Alma. Perhaps he may be insane on the subject of his 
daughter's marriage, and so fancies the portrait like her. 

Police. Ili thought has much myself ; but has true has 
hi live, there's another struck dumb with the picture ! 
\^Point8 to Ay elf on, who, having cauyht a glim2'>se of the 
2)ortrait, turns 2^(d^ (^nd, leans ayainst the wall for sup- 
2)07-t.^ Hi say, hit beats the devil, hit does ! 

Ayelton. Yes, it is her face, her angel face, that I have 
been searching for years in vain ! 



Scene IV.] BROWN BESSIE. 25 

Alma. [A]yproachhi(y.] Of whom are you speakin<^^ 
Axjelton. Of Cpnstauce, my wife ; pray, sir, tell me 
where I may find liei'. 

_ Alma. [Aside.] The same name. By Heaven, I be- 
gin to doubt my own senses ! 

Ayelton. Oh, sir; for seventeen years I have been 
separated from her. Have you no pity ? 

Alma. But this is a young lady, an American, scarce 
seventeen years of age ; so she cannot be the lost Con- 
stance whom you seek. [Aside.'] His mind must be 
wandering ! , 

Ayelton. Ti-ue, true, but it may be our child ; and I 
hear my Constance had a daughter, though I was never 
permitte(l to see her. But they told me both were dead ! 
Oh, sir ; if you have a heart akin to pity, pray tell me 
where she may be found ! 

Alma. She is tlie daughter of jdain American people. 
I came across her in my rambles for sketches of American 
scenery. Her surpassing loveliness atti-acted my eye, and 
I painted her portrait, little thinking it would create the 
sensation it has here. 

Ayelton. Do you know her parents ? 
Alma. Yes ; lionest country people ! 
Ayelton. Does she, this beauty, resemble them in looks 
or aj^pearance ? 

Alma. Not in the least ; in f\ict, there is quite a con- 
trast ! 

Ayelton. [Braining a lochet from Us hosomi\ Look 
you here. [Alma looks and starts at the likeness.] Oh ! 
you see the resemblance. 

_ Alma. Yes, they are surprisingly alike; but then such 
circumstances have happened before. 

Ayelton. [Leading Alma aside.] Listen to me for a 
few moments and I will give you a brief sketch of my life, 
I was poor! The parents of Constance were wealthy. 
We saw each other, loved, and were clandestinely married. 
The truth, liowevei', could not long be concealed. While 
absent in London pre|)aring a home for my bride, her 
parents left P]iigland, taking her forcibly with them. 
Irnagine my anguish — my desperation — on returning to 
Eildon Hall to find it closed, and no clue left by which 
I might find my wife. Two yeai-s I spent on the Conti- 



26 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IL 

nent, searching in every town and liamlet for (jonstance, 
but in vain. At the end of that time I received news 
of the return of the Thoi'ringtons to England, I sought 
the stern parents and demanded my wife ; bu.t they told 
me that my wife and chikl had died abroad ; fartlier than 
this, I could elicit nothing ; even the privilege of weep- 
ing over their graves was denied me. Do you, can you 
wonder that I cursed Thomas Torrington to his face as 
the destroyer of my happiness ? 

Alma. He, too, has noticed the picture which so re- 
sembles your lost Constance. 

Ayelton. He ! lias he been here, and what did he say ? I 
chai'ge you, as you hope for happiness, to tell me the truth ! 

Alma. He confesses to having lost a daughter in 
America. The nurse in attendance represented that the 
child died also ; but it seems he was not a witness of the 
fact. He, like you, labors under the delusion that the 
child is living. He is to accompany me to America on my 
return, and ascertain the facts. 

Ayelton. But he shall not rob me of my child ! Is it 
not enough that he killed my wife '? 

Alma. Should the young lady prove his granddaugh- 
ter—a thing quite impossible in my opinion — he only 
proposes to restore her to her rights. 

Ayelton. She will not care for his rights. Thanks to a 
kind I'rovidence, I have now a fortune of my own, and 
through the magnanimity of our noble-liearted Queen, for 
a trilling service rendered the crown, I can claim a title 
superior to the Thorringtons. But my life, what has it 
been but one long, di'eary day of wi-etchedness ? To hud a 
daughter, grown to womanhood, the image of my C?on- 
stance, would indeed be as salve to my lacerated heart. 

Alma. [^Ilands him a card.\ That, sir, is the address 
of the young lady — the original of tlie portrait — with the 
route-you are to journey accurately noted. You can seek 
her, and learn the truth from her own lips. 

Ayelton. A thousand thaidvs, my kind friend ! You, 
too, think I may be successful ? 

Alma. ISTo, sir ; candidly, I cannot give yoii the slight- 
est encouragement to hope. You will perhaps be better 
satisfied to visit her humble home and converse with her 
parents. [^Exlt hoth. 



Scene v.] BROWN BESSIE. 27 

Scene V. — Jfliisical lieJiearsal. — Madam Ml fit's House. 
— Dra/ioing-room. 

Enter Elva, Madam Baratoli, Pauline, Bessie, Seig- 
Nioii Baratoli, Musical Critics, Guests, djc. 

Pauline. \_Aside to Elva.] Have you spoken to Jones 
and Barton r' 

Elva. Yes; and the reporters for the daily papers. 
They have all promised to cut the performance dead in 
to-morrow's papers. 

Pauline. Good ! then the forward hussy will not get 
so much as an encore. 

Elva. Not she; they will treat her efforts with the 
most cutting sarcasm. But remember, Pauline, she must 
sleep in my liouse to-night. Help me to persuade her to 
remain. Do you understand '? 

Pauline. Ay, and wish you success in your diabolical 
scheme. 

[liaratoli leads Pessie to tJve front y site sings. Re- 
ceives entlmsiastic appla%{,se. 

Elva,. [^Isi'ie.] Curses, curses on them. So this is the 
way critics keep their word. This steels me to my pur- 
pose. This night she dies ! 

3Iadain P. Hear child ; I congratulate you on your 
success ! Don't you see tlie seignior is in ecstasies. But 
you look pale, darling ! 

Pessie. Only a little tired, that is all ! 

Paraloli. Tliis exertion, after having attended the opera, 
is too much for your nervous temperament, dear Bessie. 
Let us go home at once ! 

Elva. Bather let her remain here and go quietly to 
bed. I will see her well attended. 

Paratoli. What say you, dear Bessie ? 

Pessie. As you please ; only I would not like to incon- 
venience Madam Elva. 

Elva. [Throwing her arm around her.] Wliat non- 
sense is this ? Come, good seignior, get you gone at once, 
tliat we damsels may retire, and refresh ourselves by rest 
for to-moiTOW night's great work. 

Paratoli. So, so, you drive us away ! Well,well ! Good- 
night, Bessie. [Madam P. kisses Pessie. 



28 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

\^xit all except JBessie and Elva. Scene changes to 
hed-room. 

Elva. \Pointhig to a couch.^ There, dear Bessie, you 
wi]l find a resting-place for the night. May your sleep 
be sweet and your dreams pleasant. Good-night! [^IsicZe.] 
An eternal sleep be yours. 

Bessie. Good-night, dear Elva. [^Exit Elva.'] What a 
delightful thing it is to be a great singer, to be srire ! 
Such ajiplause ! But the most gratifying of all was to see 
the good seignior look so well pleased. Oh ! i never was 
so happy in all my life, I'm sure ! I must write to darling 
Mercy and tell her all about it; she will scarcely believe 
her senses ; and I shall be a prima donna at last. I fancy 
Madam Elva does not like me ; perhaps she thinks I may 
win laurels from her ; but I'm sure I have no wish to svip- 
plant her, and Pauline's brow was as dark as night. I 
tremble yet from the look she gave me. [ Goes to the win- 
dow ,' looks out.] Surely day is dawning and I have 
not had a wink of sleep. \ Throws herself on tlie couch. 
Elva approaches from outside, jnits her head cautiously 
through the vnndow. * 

Elva. Let her say her prayers, for her fate is sealed. 

{Exit. 

Jjessie. [S]y)-inging from the bed.] What a wicked 
child I have been, to be sure ; to go to bed without first 
thanking Heaven for my success. The angels whisjiered 
in my ear, reminding me of my neglect. {Kneels hy 
couch. A heavy weight falls, crushing the bed. .Bessie 
sp)rings to her feet, clasps her hands.] Saved, saved by my 
prayers, from a terrible death ! Yes, Heaven, that has 
already made me the recipient of countless mercies, will 
protect me still from the machinations of the wicked. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Forest and glen in Alderly, 3fassachusetts, 
near residence of Beacon Wilde. — tTack Jlinton and 
Ledyard Thorrington have arrived, with desiga of 
hidriapping Mercy. — Enter arin in arm. 

Ledyard. Deuce take me, Jack, if I don't give up 
horses, dogs — ay, and even cards — for the little vixen. 



Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 29 

Tack. Have you seen her? 

Tjedi/ard. Yes, aud a splendid creatni-e she is ; can-ies 
a high head though. Yon ought to have seen the look of 
disdain the little gypsy gave me when I spoke to her. 
But what success have you met with? 

tTach. Well, I reconnoitred at the form ; got the old wo- 
man by the gills before she knew what I was up to ; and 
had the truth clean out of her in less time than I've been 
telling ye, 

Ledyard. Now, you don't say, Jack. 

J'ack. You just listen, and don't interrupt. You see I 
went in with my pack to sell goods, and very quietly asked 
tlie old woman for the girl Mercy, whom they had been 
kind enough to take and bring up. You ought to have 
seen the color come and go in her truthful face. She 
didn't attempt to deny my assertion ; owned up at once 
that the child was brought to their door in the night, and 
left in a basket on the steps ; that they had brought her 
up as their own, and no one — not even their neighbors — 
sxispected her of being a foundling. 

Ledyard. So far so good ; but have they no clue to the 
child's name or parentage ? 

tTach. None at all. There was nothing in the basket 
save a child's apparel and a few trinkets — so they have 
been able to learn nothing ; bvit I was in hopes to get a 
glimpse of her myself, as the old woman told me she had 
come to the glen. 

Ledyard. Good ; let us remain and watch, for she must 
pass this way. \^Secretc themselves. 

Jack. Hark ! I hear steps. \_Denville Lov)bury enters 
from one side as Mercy enters from the other. 

3Iercy. Oh, Denville, is that you ? You look ti-oubled. I 
hope nothing has gone ill with you ! 

Denville. Alo'cy, I am despised and shunned. It is of 
no use for me to tiy to put on an air of respectability, for 
I meet with a cold shoulder from everybody. 

Mercy. You are greatly in error, Denville. You have 
but to think and act as a man to be considered such ! 

Denville. [AttemjHiny to take her hand, vMch shewith- 
draios.'l You, Mercy, and you alone can, if you will, bring 
me back to truth aud right. 

Mercy. I am willing to do all in my power for you, 



30 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

Penville, but you must rely u])on Heaven and your- 
aelf. 

Denville. Will you marry me, Mercy? [^Graspinglier 
hand, 

Mercy. Please release me, sir; tliat is asking too 
mucli. 

Denville. \^Dropping her liand.^ Then I must sink 
lower, lower still. You, Mercy Wilde, hold the scales of 
my destiny. With you at my side, with your bright ex- 
ample to cheer me on in the right path, 1 might be hon- 
ored and respected. 

JSIercy. [^Shaking her 1 read. ~\ It can never be ! 

Denville. Then 1 am lost, lost, lost ! [Exit Denville. 

3Iercy. Poor youth, you have my sympathy, my pray- 
ers, but not my love — no, no ; that is already given to an- 
other ! 

Enter Dea(;on Wilde. 

Deacon. I thought I should find you here, Mercy. Here 
is a letter from your ruxiaway friend, Bessie, I presume. It 
looks like her scribbling, and is post-marked New York ; 
but wait a bit before you read it, for I have something I 
wish to say to you. Come, sit down on this log and rest 
a bit. [^Doth sit doion. 

Mercy. What is it, dear papa ? [ Taking his hand.] 

Deacon. You see, I've got a kind of an idea in my head 
that I ought to tell you — should have made a clean breast 
of it before, but for Maggie ; she saj^s you'll take it to 
heart. 

3£ercy. What is it, dearest papa ? Don't keej) me in 
this suspense, but tell me at once ! 

Deacon. It's a bit of a story, child ; so listen. Just 
seventeen 'years ago this very day, bright and early in 
the morning, Maggie and I were roused out of a sound 
sleep by a terrible clatter a,t the door. As soon as I 
could dress myself, and that warn't many minutes, I 
bounced out, and what should I find bixt a basket with a 
wee bit of a baby in it, and nobody to be seen. 

Mercy. Why, papa, whose child was it, do you thiuk ? 

Deacon. Oh, Mercy, that is the question Maggie and 
I have been asking ourselves every blessed day since. 



Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 31 

Mi^irij. Oh, papa. ! you don't, uo, you can't mean — 
tliah '- 

Deacon. Yes, dearest Mercy, that bauy was yourself, 
and we have guarded your secret Avell ; so well tjiat not 
even one of our gossii)ing neiglibors knows l)ut you ai'e 
our own flesh and blood. 

J/erc//. I <k)vering her face vnilhlw.r IiaitiLs.] Papa, can 
it be that i am a foundling ? If so, merciful Heaven pro- 
tect me. 

Dsacoii. No, you are nothing of the kind ; you are our 
own dear child still.- There, don't take on so, or I shall 
think Maggie was right. See, here are a few trinkets, a 
bit of a chain and bracelet, which were in the basket. 
[Clasps it around her lorist.] There, see how nicely it fits. 
You must always keep them, child ; for 1 suppose they 
were your mother's. 

Mercy. Why, why did I not know of this before ? 

Deacon. For my" part I shall be sorry you know it 
now if you don't stop grieving over it. Come, cheer up, 
and read your letter while I run up to the mill. I'll be 
back in a few minutes, and go Iiome with you if you'll wait. 

Mercy. Yes, papa, I want to think. [Kelt Deacon. 

Jack. [ To Ledyard.'] A capital time to secure her v.'hile 
the old fellow's gone. 

Ledyard. Yes, but w(^ must wait till he's out of hearing. 
I hope Tim is ready by the border of the forest with the 
close carriage. 

fTach. Never fear for Tun ; he's ail light. 

Mercy. [ Opens her letter and reads. 

" Dearest Mercy : Next week is set for my first ap- 
pearance in opera, and Baratoli tells me I sliall succeed. 
Madam Elva, the present prima donna, has become ter- 
ribly jealous of me. At times she frightens me half out of 
}ny wits by her savage looks. But I came near forgetting 
the most important part of my epistle. I have again seen 
the stranger of the wood, he who first mentioned the 
name of Baratoli to me. His name is Oscar Alma. I 
first saw him at the opera in company with Pauline, 
Bar:vtoli's niece, whom the Madam tells me he is going to 
marry and take abroad with him. We passed very near 
hiin, but he did not see me. Oh, how I longed to fell on 
mv knees to hinr and thank him for his kindly advice to 



32 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

me ; but I met the basilisk gaze of Pauline and drew 
back. Oh that I could make him understand the true 
character of the woman he is about to wed ! But what 
would he think of my interference — I, a beggar, a slave 
until he pronounced the name of Baratoli ? He will many 
her, and I am powerless to prevent." 

Mercy. \(Jlasping her hands and dropping the lettA^r.^ 
Oh Bessie, darling Bessie ! your words are as a dagger 
to my heart ! He, my adored Alma, ere now the husband 
of another ? and I but yesterday received a letter from 
him couched in the glowing language of love ! Oh, the 
perfidy of man ! \I)rawii the letter of Alma from her 
bosom and tears it in jneces. ] So perish my love for thee , 
unworthy Alma ! 

Ledyard to tTack. So the artist is playing a double 
game ; ha ! ha ! She's a biid worth the catching, 
though. 

tTack. Yes, and we'd best be about it, or the deacon '11 
be back ! 

Ledyard. \^Springin(j out.^ Come on, then ! 

\_Mercy beholds them and attempts tofy, but is caught 
by tTach. Screar)is. Enter Deacon Wilde^ rushes 
on J^ack, Led/yard fires on him, he falls, and Led- 
yard and tTack escape vnth Mercy. 

Scene II. — Hoom in Deacon Wilde''s cottage. 

Enter Will Littlefield, Mark Kendrick, several vil- 
lagers. Mrs. Wilde knitting. 

Will. Good evening, jMistress Wilde. Thought we'd 
stop and have a little bit of a frolic, being v/e wei'e j^ass- 
ing ; but where's Mercy ? 

Mrs. TFi She took her book and went off to the glen 
a long time ago. Justice got a letter out of the post-ofiice 
for her, so he said he would go through the glen on his 
way to the mill and bring her back v/ith him. 

3£ark. It's a poor place — that glen — for a girl like 
Mercy to spend so much time in ! 

Mrs. W. That's j ust what I tell Justice. I get worried 
enamost tu death 'bout her, she stays out there so late ; 
it's so lonesome that it makes my flesh creep every time I 
go through it by daylight. 



Scene II.] BROWN BESSIE. 33 

Enter Deacon Wilde, witli blood on his clothes. 

3Irs. IV. Sakes alive ! deacon, where liavo you been, 
and what's become of Mercy ? 

Deacon. She's gone! They've carried her off. \~\Vrin(js 
his hands.^ Oh ! what shall I do, wliat shall I do ? 

Will. Gone where ? Pray exphdn at once. 

3fark. Speak, for heaven's sake, and let us go in quest 
of her ! Who are they ? 

3frs. W. Justice, Justice, who has got her ? 

Deacon. I don't know ! 1 can't tell ! two rough-look- 
ing men ; thoy shot me in the arm \yciomen screcvm\ and 
then dragged her away. 

Mrs. W. Oh, this is dreadful ! Won't some one go for 
the neighbors ? 

Enter Rachel Snow. 

Will. Mark, you run over to the squire's ; get firearms 
and all the help you can, and I will go to Dikcman's and 
the parson's. We must scour the forest without delay. 

[Exit hoys. 

Rachel. AVhat 'pon airth do you stand there wringing 
your hands for. Miss Wilde ? You don't expect that's a 
going to bring your darter back, do you? You'd better 
be a binding up your husband's arm. 

Deacon. Don't trouble yourself about my arm, Hachel ; 
it's only a llesh wound; but try and do something comforting 
for Maggie. Just make her a cu}) of tea and toast while 
1 go out again to search for my child. [Exit. 

Rachd. Well, if this aren't the curiousest mess I ever 
got into in my born days ! There's been foul play some- 
where ! I allers thought the Wildes would get into 
trouble marrying as they did; and now they can see what 
they've got by it. 

Maggie. Oh, my child ! my blessed child ! 

Rachel. Just to hear that critter take on though. Tt 
beats all nature, it does. Well, when folks makes idols 
of their children they must expect to have them taken 
awa.y ; that's all the consolation I can give ! As for tea 
and toast, I reckoii Mistress Maggie aren't so fai' gone 
but she can make it herself. 



34: BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

Scene III. — -Cave of the Knights of the lied Crescent. 
— J^etlirldge sits before a table y torches, bottles, and 
glasses. 

Enter Maxwell. 

Lethridge. Yoii are doubtless surjirised at tlie hasty 
summons, Maxwell, but we have to initiate a new knight in- 
to our order. Denville Lowbury has come hither to join us. 

3Iax. Ha, ha ! let's drink to his success. \^J3oth drink. 

Lethridge. Wetherbe should have been hei'e ere this. 
By what accident is he detained ? 

JSIax. I have noticed a change in him since we buried 
his Annie. 

Lethridge. Pshaw ! that will soon blow over ; he was 
not wont to loiter ; but let ixs proceed to business. 
[ Whistles, and Lowbury enters.l^ Young man, we Knights 
of the Ked Crescent believe in tlie laws of equality ; that 
is to say, you have the same right in Parson Beverly's 
pulpit that he has, provided you have the strength of arm 
to enforce the claim. You have an equal right with John 
Dikeman to the chickens on his roost, provided you se- 
cui-e them, and don't get cavight in the trap. You have 
a riglit to the sleek hoi'ses driven bj?^ the squire, provided 
you can trot them over the line into Canada. You have 
the best right to the deacon's pi^etty daughter, provided 
you can catch her. The cage is ready for the bird, and 
a pretty dove-cote it is, too ; so you had best set about 
laying the snare. 

Lowbury. But if we are detected ? 

Lethridge. The Knights of the Red Crescent are never 
detected ; and, remember, we have no " ifs " in our vo- 
cabulary. Maxwell, bring the book. \JSIaxtmll brings 
hook and stand.~\ Place your hand on that book, Low- 
bury, and repeat after me the creed. [^Loiohury lays his 
hand on the Hible and 7'epeats.] Before these witnesses, 
and with my hand on the sacred book, do I, Denville 
Lowbury, swear allegiance to the captain of tliis most 
noble order. Hereafter, so long as v/e both may live, I 
faithfully promise to fulfil his commands, to obey to the 
letter his slightest wishes, to break all other ties, and 
live only to the good of this divine order. 

Teethridge. In token whereof I decorate you with this 



Scene III.] BROWN BESSIE. 35 

symbol. [Places on Lowhiir^/ the scarf mid crescent of 
the order. \ And now, iu the presence of tlie.se witnes.ses 
I pronounce you a Kniglit of the Ked Crescent. 

Enter Wetiieuce. Throws doioa a turkey. 

Wetherhe. Hilloa, cap., what's up? 

Lethridr/e. A now knight to our glorious order. 

\^Vetherhe and Lowdniry shake hands. 
3IaxiDwell. Now for a bumper and a song ! 

\_Fills glasses. Letliridge sings. 

SONG. 

Here's health to the knights of the ]o\\j Red Crescent ! 
Free and easy's their style, and their life it is pleasant; 
They ride the best steeds of the country around. 
And the choicest of game in their larder is found. 

ciioKUS. [AUJoi/i. 

Then ho, for the knights of the red ! 
Ho ! ho, for the knights of the red ! 

There's a wink and a smile 

The fair lass to beguile ; 
Ho ! ho for the knights of the red ! 

No captain e'er marshalled so fearless a crew, 
Hurra for the Red Knights ! avaunt with your blue ! 
To one color we rally, our knights never fly ; 
Red Crescents we've lived, jolly reds we will die ! 

CHORUS. 
Then hurra ! for the knights of the red ! 
Hip, hurra ! for the knights of the red ! 
There's a wink and a smile 
The fair lass to beguile ; 
Hip, hurra ! for the knights of the red ! 

\_All drink. 

Letliridge. Pray explain your absence ; our knights 
are not wont to tarry after a summons. 

Wetherhe. There's a terrible stir abroad, eaptain; men, 
women, and children all in the streets with lanterns, pick- 
axes, and old rusty guns that haven't been loaded since 
the Revolution. I kept shady at first, for fear they were 
on my scent ; for you know it was but yesterday I helped 



36 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

to run nff the squire's marc over the border ; biit I soon 
found it was sweet IMercy, tlie deacon's daughter, who 
was missing, — kidnapped, as the story goes. 

JLowh%vry. [/Sprinr/ing up.^ What! How? 

Lethridge. Keep cool, boy. Go on, Wetherbe. 

Wetherhe. I've bnt little more to tell. Meeting Ra- 
chel, the gossi}), I made inquiries, and loarned that Mercy 
was walking alone in the glen, when two ill-looking fel- 
lows seized her and were bearing her away ; but her 
screams brought her father to her rescue. He was fired 
xipon by the rowdies and left wounded on the field, while 
they escaped with their booty. Rachel says, when he ar- 
rived at his own door, he looked as if he had committed 
murder himself. 

Lethridge. A thought strikes me ! I'll have the old 
deacon arraigned for mvirder, provided the girl don't turn 
up to prevent it. Won't I pay oft' the old coon now, 
though ! 

Loiohury. I do not believe the tale. Rachel is too 
much of a gossip to tell the truth, yoii know. 

Wetlierhe. Yes, I know ; but the girl is gone, fast 
enough. I remained until every nook and coi'uer of the 
forest was searched. Rachel says, if it was not that the 
deacon is a church-member, she should think he had put 
her out of the way himself, to keep her from marrying 
you, Lowbury ! 

Lethridge. Rachel will be an important witness in the 
case ! 

Loivhury. Depend upon it, that is one of Rachel's lies. 

Lethridge. Never mind that ! all the better for me if 
he is arrested ! I believe, Wetherbe, the lost girl some- 
what resembled your Annie. 

Wetherbe. Only in the size and color of the hair. 

Lethridge. Sufficient for my purpose, however ! 

Wetherbe. What the devil are you up to now, Leth- 
ridge ? 

Lethridge. The deacon shall be arrested to-morrow 
morning, before sunrise, for the murder of his daughter. 
This night the body of your lost Annie must be exhumed 
and thrown into the ci-eek near where Mercy Wilde was 
last seen. I will see that it is brought out of the creek 
in the proper time to fasten suspicion on the old man as 



Scene IV.] 



BROWN BESSIE. 37 



her murderer. In your care, Wetherlje, I leave tliis 
business ; see that it is done before dav/n ! 

Wetherbe. Uood heavens, captain ! this is too much. 

Lethruhje. Remember ! there is nothing impossible 
with the Knights of the Red Crescent ! Maxwell will 
accompany you. You, Denville Lowbviry, had better re- 
main here for a week or so ; it may helj) on the suspicion. 
You will find eatables in the vault below. If you are 
fond of reading, here are "Tom Paine's Works" and 
" Daring Deeds of Highwaymen," both interesting in 
their way. 

LowJniry. But Mercy ; should she return 

Lethridge. She is yours, by the honor of the captain of 
the Red Orescent, [Join hands. 

Loivhury. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I met 
Mercy in the glen last night. 

Lethridge. And she refused you ? 

Lowhury. She did, sir ; in despair I sought the cave, 
resolved to join yoiir order. 

Lethridge. You did nobly ! If the girl is living it shall 
bring her to your arms ! 

Lowhnry. [Aside.'] I never felt myself so firmly in the 
devil's grasp as now. 

Scene IV. — Ziver^yool — Eoom in Hotel. — Mercy Wilde 
sitting by table. 

Enter Led yard Thorktngton, Mercy rising as he enters. 

Mercy. What means this continued imprisonment, sir ? 
Did you not tell me I should have my liberty immediately 
on my arrival ? 

Ledyard. Ha ! ha ! Your simplicity is charming, my 
sweet one ! 

Mercy. Is it not enough to tear me from home and 
parejits, to brand me as a maniac the better to carry out 

your vile scheme 

^Ledyard. [Attempting to 2'>ut his arms around her.] 
Hold my pretty coz ! I'll assure you I'm doing what is 
for your future good ; you will soon thank me 

Mercy. Never, never sir ! Leave me, I command you ! 
Your presence here inspires me with contempt ! 



38 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

Jjedyard. AVhafc will yo\i say, little one, when I tell 
you, vou are not tlie otl'spriiig of the jsimple-hearted 
Wilde^s ? 

Mercy. [^-Isit/e.] Can it be possible that he knows 
aught of my parentage ? [ To Thorrington^ What author- 
ity have you for saying that, sir ? 

Ledyard. The best evidence, my sweet Mercy, that the 
world can produce. You are my cousin, and as such I 
am willing to take you under my own protection, to raise 
you from the humble sphere in which you have so long 
lived to that in which I move ; in fact, I have resolved to 
make you my wife ! 

Mercy. An honorable way of declaring your intentions, 
sir. I beg you to understand, once for all, that I will sub- 
mit to a dungeon for life rather than become the wife of a 
villain ! 

Ledyard. When next we meet you will be in a better 
mood for wooing, miss ! [ Turns to leave. 

Mercy. Hold, sir ! You have said I was not the daugh- 
ter of Justice and Margaret Wilde. Before you leave I 
desire you to explain yourself. 

Ledyard. The pretty dear queens it well ! when in a 
better temper she shall know more ! \Exit., locking the 
door. Mercy rushes forward and attempts to open it, 
hut in vain ' sinks on her knees.~\ Just Heaven ! remember 
thy daughter in her sorrows ; and in mercy send thou a 
messenger to my relief ! \^Ilises, sees a key before her' j?icks 
it up.^ Wliat ! a skeleton key ! if it would release me ! 
\_Tries it in the door, ojyens it, hears steps, closes it and puts 
on a shawl and bonnet, listens, jyeeps o'at.~\ I will make the 
attempt; and now, Heaven gixide me ! \^Exit Mercy. 

Scene V. — Tlbc Green-room of the Opera. — Ttessie makes 
Iter debut as Prima JJonna. 

Enter Elva and Pauline. 

Paidine. After all your threats, the girl still lives ; 
ay, and bids fair to become the rage. 

Elva. Her days are numbered ! 

Pauline. You said the same at the rehearsal three 
weeks ago, and she not only lives, but thrives under the 



Scene V.J BROWN BESSIE. 39 

teachings of my silly nncle. ITa ! ha ! to think of an 
old head like yours being set aside by a silly young 
wench. How did you relish the reception, my lady, and 
her encores 'i Why, Elva, the boards are fairly ringing yet ; 
don't you hear ? \Elva loalks back and forth toith a dis- 
tressed air. Bessie' s voice is Iteard siiKjiiig ; /q^plause, etc.] 
There, Elva, there ! don't you enjoy it? It is her closing 
act. What a round of ap})lause ! 

\I^/,va^ tears her hair ivith rage. 

Elva. [ Taking a hottle and glass from a cvpboaixL] 
She will be exhausted with her etforts. I will see that she 
gets a dose this time. 

Pauline. There, it is over ; I hear them coming. As I 
do not desire to be a witness, I will retire, wishing you 
success, however. You know the old adage, Elva : "The 
devil pipes luck to his own." \lilxit Pa,uline. 

Enter the Madam, leading Bessie, Bakatoli and critics 
following. 

Ma.dain P. Oh, Elva ! it was such a triumph ! What a 
jiity that your ])art took you off the stage just as she 
came in with the last solo. Oh, it was magnihcent, it was 
heavenly ! 

Elva. [Aside.] I a witness to her triumphs ? Never, 
never, never ! All shall be witness to another tragedy, 
in which she plays the first pai't. 

To Pessie. You are quite gone, I see. 1 know what a 
first appearance is. Why, you are about to faint ! Here, 
take some wine ; Pauline brought it for you. 

[JTtnids a glass to Pessie, tolio takes a. swallow. 

Pessie. But look at the seignior ; he, too, is over- 
worked ; excuse my having tasted, [Hands him the 
glass.] Do me the honoi-. 

Seignior P. Your lips, d(>ar child, have sweetened it. 
[Drinks.] Ah ! it is refreshing indeed. 

Elva. [Springing forward?^ Hold ! Baratoli, for the 
love of heaven, till I get 

Seignior P. Why do you look so agitated, Elva ? 

Madam P. [Aside?^ A little jealous ; don't you see ? 
The trium])h of our protegee affects her seriously. 

[ALuhxin Elva, throws the hottle of wine on ihefoor. 



40 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

JElva. [yl.s/c/e.] The devirs work is clone. 

[Exit JElva. 
[JBaratoli staggers, turns pale, falls. 
JIadam. My son, are you ill ? i lelp ! help ! 
Itessie. The good seignior ! Oh ! my head. 

[Hessie is 7iea7' falling • is caught, and siipported by 
one of the critics ' the JSIadani kneels by her son, 
chafes his teonples y all is confusion. 
Madam. Oh, my son ! my son ! art thou dying ? 
Run for a physician ! 

Scene VI. — Liverpool. — Dravnng-room in the private 
residence of JSIr. and 3Irs. John Stilwell. — JSIercy 
asleep on the sofa, bonnet particdly off, leaving Iter fea- 
tures visible. 

Enter John Stilwell ariul his ivife. 

Eliza. [Looking at Jifercy.'\ I don't believe a word 
you say, John, about this young woman. She has too 
pretty a face to be tramping about the country in this 
style. 

tTolin. Very well, Eliza, turn her out of doors if you 
like ; only don't let the sin lay at my door if she starves 
in the street. But I must be off to meet Ayelton. You 
see I shall have to bring him by force if we get him here 
at all. 

Eliza. True, and it's time the company were assem- 
bling now. I say, John, are you sure that sleeping beauty 
isn't one of your London flames come down on the sly '? 

•Tohn. Eliza, for shame ! to suspect me of fanning a 
London flame ! especially here in Liverpool. 

Eliza. John, look me in the eye ! \jTohn looks steadily 
for a 7noment.^ Well, I shall have to believe you 
whether I will or no ! 

tTohn. [Kissing herJ\ Good-by, love ! Don't forget 
to dispose of your beauty there before the guests arrive, 
or it might make it awkward. 

Eliza,. [ Clapping her hands. ] A lucky thought strikes 
me, John. [ Gives him a heavy slap on the check. 

JTohn. [RiMing his cheek.^ Pray let the thought in- 
stead of yourself strike me next time ! 

Eliza. Won't she make a beautiful Morning to my 



Scene VI.] BTIOWN BESSIE. 41 

Night? I declare thoKe golden curls look jiist like sun- 
rise ! [fSjtriiu/s to Mevcifs side ami shales Jar. 

ffn/in. Via exit before the explosion. [IlxU John. 

J-Jliza. Wake np, my dear ; wake up ! 

Mercy. [Looking toll Jly arownd.'] Where am I ? Oh, 
I liave been dreaming. I thought I was in my dear, 
quiet home, and my mother had come to waken me. 

[ Weejys. 

Eliza. There, there, dear child ! don't cry and spoil 
those fine eyes. My husband has told me your sad story, 
and I'm very sorry for yovi ; so soi'ry that I'm! going to 
make yon very happy while you stay with us ! 

Mercy. But if I could only go back to my fiiends in 
America. 

Eliza. And so you shall, in the next steamer that sails, 
which is in two weeks. My husband has a friend who is 
down from London to take passage, and he will put you 
under his care. In the meantime I expect you to be my 
guest, and as such you nn\st appear at my fancy-dress 
ball to-night. 

Mercy. If you will please excuse me 

Eliza. Not T, indeed! I appear as Night; you are just 
the one to take the opposite character of Aurora or Morn- 
ing; so come with me" to my dressing-room at once. 
Come ! we have no time to tarry. 

YPidls Mercy out. Exit both. 

Enter Mr. John Stil\yell and Sir William Ayelton. 

/Sir Wni. Though you may not be willing to confess it, 
you have made a great mistake in bringing me here, Stil- 
wcll. 

J^ohn. I trust not, Sir William ! Shake off your accus- 
tomed melancholy for once, and appear like a sane 
man. 

Sir Wm. Impossible ! my dear sir. The memory of 
my lost Constance has become, as it w-cre,_ a part of my 
existence ; and lately I have seen a portrait which prom- 
ises to afibrd me a clew to her last resting-place. 

lohn. Ay, and that accounts for your sudden journey 
to America. 

Sir Wm. Yes, I have tlie assurance that she died 



42 BROWN BESSIE. [Act III. 

there, and I liave anotlicr hope so visionary that I 
scarcely dare name it — that of finding a daughter. 

tTohn. And I have a hxdy hei'e, a true-born American, 
who bakes passage in tlie next steamer for New Yoi-k. 
Nay, don't scow], Sir William, she is beautiful as the hou- 
ris, and will make a most entertaining companion. 

Sir Wm. Don't ask it of me, Stilwell ; you know my 
aversion to the companionship of even a handsome lady. 

Enter 'EjIjVia^ folloioed by Mercy, in costume. 

J~o]in. Here she comes. There is no help for you. Sir 
William, so bear it like a man. \^Lea(h JEliza u]>.^ This 
dark-eyed beauty, in her starlit mantle, is Night, and this 
is Aurora, or JNIorning, alias the ])retty American. 

Sir Win. My Constance ! [Einhraces her. JSIercy is 
frightened y screams. 

tTolin. What the devil are j^ou doing '? I expected you 
to admire, not devour her ! \^Iieleascs Mercy. 

/Sir TFoi. It is she ! my child ! tlie daughter of my 
lost Constance ! 

Jiiiza. But she tells us she left parents in America — 
plain farmers, were they not? 

Mercy. They were my foster-parents. I had supposed 
them my real parents until the night I was so cruelly torn 
from their arms ; then my father disclosed tlie secret, that 
I was left when an infant at his door. 

tiiT Wtn. And was there no letter, no word to tell 
them of your jiarentage and name ? 

Mercy. No, sir ; nothing but mj' clothing and this 
bracelet and necklace. 

Sir Win. '[Examining hracelet.'\ Heaven be praised ! 
That bracelet T gave my Constance on her wedding-day. 
Inside, in small Roman characters, you'll find the name of 
Constance Ayelton. \Joli.n takes and examines it. 

itTolin. True, true! I congratulate you, Sii* William. Pray 
what do you think of my mistake in bringing you here? 

Sir Wni. I can never sufficiently thank you. 

JEliza. And now you will not have to make that dread 
voyage. 

Mercy. My dear foster-parents are sufliering untold 
agony at my absence. 



Scene VIL] 



BROWN BESSIE. 43 



>S'i'r Wm. And there is a lone grave there that we must 
search out — the grave of my lost Constance. We will go, 
as was first intended, love ; for I see by your eyes you 
wish it. 

JEnter Chiests in doiiiinoes and fancy costumes. 

Eliza. Do not withdraw from the company, Sir 
William, I'm sure if you ever felt like dancing, it ought 
to be to-night. [ Gttests make their respects to Jolm and 
Eliza. Sets form for quadrille ; dance. 

Scene VII. — ^1 room in BaratoWs house. — Bessie ill 
on « couch. 

Enter Elva steaWdly. 

Bessie. Oh, I have bean ill so long. That terrible night 

when Elva seemed so like a demon and gave me the 

sickening wine- 



Elva. [Aside.~\ Sickening wine ! ha ! ha ! Curses, curses 
on her! {To Bessie.'] Look, you wretch, beggar; you 
who have dared to cross my path ; yon who thonght to 
sni)plant me in the love of Baratoli ; it was you who put 
the poison to his lips: ha! ha! take this consoling 
thought with you. Had you drunk the wine yourself 
you might have saved him. You killed him, not I ! 

Besde. Oh, cruel-hearted woman ! Would to licaven 
I had. I would die a thousand dea,ths to save my 
Baratoli one pang ; but too late, too lato ! Would that I 
coidd die too ! 

Elva. Dying would l)e too great a blessing for-^such as 
you: -Live ouj'^and sufi'er, ha ! ha! [Exit Elva. 

Enter Pauline. Bessie rises. 

Bessie. My good Pauline, will you not let me look 
upon the good Seignior's face once more ? Now that he is 
dead there can be no harm ; then I Avill go away and never 
trouble you again. 

BanUne. You will, ha ! You're getting really clever ; 
but if I mistake not you'll go without even a look at the 
seignior ! I'm mistress here now, so start yourself ! 
^Throioshcra imrse.] There, take that and never let 



44 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. 

me see your face again. [Jjessie ^;?f<s on a bonnet and 
shaiol mul walks douily toioards the door. To Panilhie. 

Hessle. Will you tell the good madam that I left her 
my blessing and many thanks for all her kindness to me? 

l^ivline. No ! I'll tell her nothing ; leave at once, or 
I'll call the police ! 

13essie. [ Clasj'ring her liands.^ Alas ! where shall I go ? 
Home and friends I have none. \_JExit Jjessie. 



ACT ly. 

Scene I. — Deacon Wdde^s house in Alderly. — SHting- 
Hooni. — Rachel ISnow hustlbig about. 

Jiaehel. Justice Wilde might have got a better house- 
keeper than Maggie Wrinkle, and not looked far either ; 
but some folks never know when they're well off. As 
I said to Mr. Beverly, says I, there's Bessie Dikeman 
come home worse off than when she went away, I reckon, 
if the truth is known. She goes moping around with fine 
ladyish airs ; but that don't aifect me in the least. I 
always knew she had no voice for singing, and I reckon 
that big Bear-toller got sick enough of lier, or he wouldn't 
have sent her home. \-^i rap is heard.] Lordy massa ! 
Come in. \^/Sniooths her hair, adjusts her apron. 

Enter Will Littlefield. 

Ivacliel. Lawful sakes ! Will, is that you ? I'm dread- 
ful glad to see you ; but what's the matter ? 

Mill. \ Throwing himself into a chair.\ Matter enough. 
There was a body fished iip out of the creek last night ! 
I know it wasn't the body of Mercy Wilde ; but the jury 
have convicted the deacon of the murder, and he's got to 
be hung — bo ! ho ! ho ! 

Rachel. Well, don't take on so, William, dear ! there's 
women left yet in the woiid to comfort ye ! \Rcic}i.el at- 
tempts to embrace him. Exit Will.] Bo ! ho ! ho ! 

Ilachel. Was there ever such a born fool as that Wil- 
liam ? I wouldn't marry him if he was to get down on 



Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. ^5 

liis knees to me ; that I wouldn't. [7iV^^9 at door.'] Lawful 
sakes ! company again ? Come in, [ say ! 



Enter Alma and Mr. Thomas Thorrington. 

Goodness, Mr. Alma, I didn't expect to see you back 
so soon, but take a chair, du. [^Pushes a chair toivards 
Jam.] And this old fellow maybe'd like to set down tu. 
[ Gives him a chair. 

Alma. I expected to have been here sooner though, 
Miss Eachel ; but how are all the good folks, and whither 
fled ? 

Jiachel: Maybe you haven't heard the news. I thought 
at first you'd come ixp to the hanging. 

Alma. Hanging ! for Heaven's sake explain your- 
self. 

Machel. Why, the deacon's daughter, JMercy— you 
know her — took a master sight of pains painting her pic- 
ture too, — well, she turned vip missing a few months ago, 
and her father was arrested and tried for her murder. 

Alma. But she is not dead, my darling Mercy ! No, 
no ! I'll not believe it ! 

Eachel. Hold on, sir, till I finish the story ! Her 
body was fished up out of the creek yesterday, and on 
that evidence they have convicted the deacon, and he' s 
going to be hung next week. 

Thomas T. Alas, alas ! Heaven has already piit it 
out of my power to render reparation to my Constance's 
child, if this horrid tale be true. 

AhiM. [Terribly excited.] Tell me, pray tell me wJicre 
is Mrs. Wilde, that I may sympathize with her in this 
bereavement. 

jRachel. She is in the bedroom, sir ; won't see anybody 
except the parson and Bessie Dikeman, as if she thought 
they covild help her. 

Alma. Pray tell her I am here, and must speak with 
her on business at once ! 

Hachel. I'll tell her ; but 't won't do no good. 

[Mvit Itachel. 
Thomas T. What can this mean, sir ? I thought those 
people, her parents, were Christians, not butchers ! 



46 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. 

Alma. And so they are, sir. There is some teriible 
oversight here, believe me ! If they persist in hanging 
Deacon Wihle they will hang an innocent man ! 

Tliomas T. I have heard much of the laxity of the 
laws of tlio United States. Is this an example, Mr. 
Alma? 

Alma. Wait, my dear sir, till we get at the facts of 
the case. Rachel is an inveterate gossip, and we must not 
believe all she says. 



Enter Mrs. Wilde, leaning on the arm of Brown Bessie. 
Embraces Alma, and wee2}S iipon his neck. 

Alma. Calm yourself, my dear madam, and tell me if 
this horrible tale is true. 

Jfrs. W. That Mercy, our darling, is gone, is too ti-ue ; 
but I do not, cannot believe her dead; nor is my husband 
a nuirderer. Before Heaven will I take my oath of 
that. 

Alma. But the body that was found — did you see 
it? 

]\rrs. IV. Yes, both Bessie and I, and I could have 
sworn it was not hers ; but our evidence was not al- 
lowed. You see they are fierce as hounds for his blood, 
and nothing but hanging will satisfy them. [ IVeeps. 

Alma. [ To J3cssv\^ And who is this? My little brown 
maid of the wood, as I live ! 

JBessie. Yes, sir, the same; and I have so longed to 
behold you again, to thank j'oii for the mention of the 
name of that noble man. 

Alma. Then you did go to Baratoli? 

JBessie. I did : and the only happy moments of my life 
were those spent under his instruction, in his hospitable 
mansion ; but it is past ; and the only happiness left 
me is that of rendering sweet incense to his memory in 
the songs he loved. 

Alma,. What mean you? Hath any harm happened to 
my friend ? 

JBessie. I was diiven from his mansion, when he was 
dying, by his niece, Pauline. I could have forgiven all 
had I been permitted to have seen his face once more, 



Scene I.] BROWN BESSIE. 47 

and bade farewell to liis mother ; but l)oth were denied 
me ; and being myself ill, I had no alternative but to re- 
turn to my humble home. On arriving I found others 
in deep sorrow as v\'ell as myself. Dear Mercy was gone, 
and her parents distracted ; and now the worst of all is 
the terrible ftite that awaits the poor innocent old man, 
her father ! 

l^AIma covers Ms face tvith his hands. Thomas ap- 
proaches 3Irs. Wilde. 

Thomas T. My dear madam, I too have had trials 
and afflictions, but perhaps not as severe as your own. I 
had one child, a daughter; we called her Constance; but 
she had the same sweet expression of face as your daugli- 
ter Mercy. She married in opposition to my wishes, and 
I separated her from her husband, bringing her to A.mei'- 
ica. I think it must have been in this vicinity that I 
left her and returned to New York. In my absence slio 
dit'd, and her infant — a little girl — I su})})0sed died with 
her. I have since been led to believe the child living. 
Can _you give me no information regarding a motherless 
child? 

Mrs. W. Hold, sir ! Why do you (!ome at this late 
hour to seek that which was lost seventeen years ago? 

Thomas. To make restitution to that child ; to crave 
forgiveness of her for the wrongs done her mother. 

Mrs. V,^. Mercy was not our child. She was left, a 
foundling, on our steps, when an infant, but no one sus- 
pected it. 

Thomas. Was there nothing left by which to identify 
her ? 

Ifrs. W. A plenty of infant's clothing, and a chain 
and bracelet. The bracelet had a curious mark on it ; 
Justice said it was some foreign language, he reckoned, 
but we could neither of us read it. She had both the 
chain and bracelet on when she was lost. 

Thomas. I have no doubt but the lost Mercy is my 
granddaughter. Oh, that I had arrived in time to save 
her ! 

Alma. Would that I had never left her. [7>m?/'.'? a 
golden ctirlfjom his bosom.'] Behold this treasured curl ! 
her parting' gift. Worlds could not buy it from me now. 

[yJ/^ iv&p. 



48 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. 

Scene II. — Court-ynrd in front of the jail. — Scaffold 
ivith rope. — Letliridge., ]\Iaxii!ell, ^Tarlc^ Kendrick, Will 
Littlefield, and villagers present. 

Df.nville Lowbury and. Rab Wetherbe enter .^ also 
Thomas Thorkington and Alma. 

Letliridgc. [ To Max. ] Wasn't the artist and tlie parson 
Avarinble-croned, tlio', when they found that their evidence 
woiddn't be admitted ? 

Max. It does beat the devil, though, whei'e that gal is. 
She may turn up yet ! 

Letliridge. She'll have to be on hand in less than five 
unn\ites if she expects to save the deacon's neck ! [ J9t^ffl- 
con enters slowly^ followed hy the sheriff.^ There he 
comes up to time. I'll tell you, Max, he's an old brick, 
the deacon is. \^iSteps tipon the scaffold. 

Will Littlefield. [ To Alma. ] O Lordy massa ! it's awfid, 
it is ! I du say, Mr. Alma, to hang an innocent man in 
this way ! 

Alma. I've sent a man Avith a petition to the governor 
for pardon. I hope he may arrive in time. 

[Xo ivhury disappears. 

Lethridge. He's going to die game, he is ; ha ! ha ! a 
speech ! 

Max. Do keep still, Ijethridge, let's hear what he 
says. 

Deacon Wilde. Although not guilty of the great and 
terrible crime charged upon me, and for which I am about 
to suffer, still, let not any misconstrue my reiterations of 
innocence into a desire to escape the i)unis]iment fixed by 
law upon me. 1 find no fault with the charge of the 
Judge or the vei'dict of the jury. They, doubtless, feel 
that in their decision they have obeyed the dictates of 
conscience in acceding to the demands of justice. 

I am not unhappy at the prospect of leaving this for a 
brighter, and more enduring home. If those who have 
part or lot in my arrest and trial have a clear conscience, 
then the mere matter of pushing me into heaven a few 
niontlis, weeks, or days sooner than I should otherwise go, 
will surely be no injustice to me ; and if in after years 
my innocence should be established, let not those who 
have been the unwilling instruments of my death render 



Scene It] BROWN BESSIE. 49 

tlieiiiselves unhappy. If there is an offence, may Heaven 
forgive them, as I do now ! Sheriff, I am ready. 

[/Sherijf adjusts the cajy and rope, raises the ax: a cry 
among the crowd. 

Enter Den. Lowbury, with Mercy and Sir Wm. Ayelton. 

Denville. Hohl, hohl ! \^Mercy S2>rlngs upon the scaf- 
fold and clasps Deacon Wilde in her arms. 

Mercy. jNly papa, my dear ])apa ! To think you were 
so near death and I knew nothing of your danger ! 

Deacoii AYilde. My child, my chikl ! 

Jjethridge. What a devilish blunder ! Come, IMaxwell, 
I reckon we may as well make ourselves scarce. 

DenvUle. [ Graspdng Ijetliridge hy tlie collar.^ No, you 
don't, sir ! Come on, boys ! help me to hold him ! This is 
the rascal that had the deacon arrested, though he knew he 
was innocent ! He it was who caused the dead body of 
Annie Melbourn to be thrown into the creek, and then 
swore to its being that of Mercy Wilde, for the sake of 
getting; the deacon hving ! 

Will JLlttlefeld. Come on ! shall the gallows be cheated 
of its victim V I say come on ! 

\^Crotvd rush on Zjcthridge^arid attempt to put him on 
the scaffold. 

Deacon, l]llde. My friends, do not hurry a ])Oor sin- 
ful creature into eternity. Tf guilty, as you say, let the 
proi)er authorities arrest and give him a lawful trial, aiul 
may Heaven have mercy on him. [Dethridge is led aimy 
by slierijf. Mercy ^oalks cdong tvith Deacon Mllde. 

Alma. jMercy, my darling, have you no word for uie in 
all your joy ? ^Looks coldly o^n him. 

Mercy. I hope and trust you are happy, sir. [ To her 
father.^ Dear papa, this is the dear, kind ])arent who 
has been more than a father to me ; if you love him but 
half as much as 1 it will be sufHcieut. {^Deacon WUde 
and Sir IFilliaiti shake hands cordi'dly. 

Will IJfllcfdd. Bo! ho! ho! I never was so tickled 
in all my life! L wonder what I'm crying for. 

^llma. lAside.l Alas, that cold, indifferent look ; that 
crmd stare ! Have her altered fortunes so changeil lier 
already ? Then farewell to all my hopes of happiness. 
3 



5(' BROWN BESSIE. fAcT IV. 

S(;ene III. — ])r(uniii</-r<>oiii in tin' ('ott<(</e of J)eaco)i 
IVilde. — Mercy vxdkiiKj hack and forth., apparently 
in deep) thought. 



Enter Bessik, rohed in black. 

Sessie. Dearest Mercy, have we met again ? 

[ JRJinhrace. 

Mercy. Again ! It seems years, my beloved Bessie, 
since we jiarted ! Oh, my brain is still giddy with the 
terrible scenes of the })ast few days. 

.Bessie. And I, oh, Mei'cy ! I can never, never tell 
yon what I have sutferetl. I, wlio was only a few weeks 
ago so happy ; bnt he is dead, the generous, the noble 
Baratoli, and I again a houseless wandei-er. 

Mercy. Say not so, dearest Bessie. Your home shall 
be in ftiture with me. My noble father will love you 
for my sake. But tell me of yoTir friends ; are tliey 
ha})j)y — the artist and Pauline — whom you wrote me 
were to be married ? 

Jiessie. The Madam was misinformed ; it seems Mr. 
Alma never intended to marry I'auline, though it was she 
who spread the re])ort that they were engaged. I have 
met him here, and I fancy he looks unhap})y : but, dear 
Mercy, yo\i are ill. 

3Iercy. Excuse me, a little faint, that is all. Don't 
mention it to i);ii)a; he is so fearful he shall lose me 
again that he scarce allows me out of his sight; l)ut here 
he comes with strangers — a distinguished looking man. 
[J?e.s'S?'e looks, screams, and rvshes into the ((nns of 
Madam J^aratoli. The /Seiynior takes Iter from his 
another'' s arms. 

Seignior. Bless my heart, sweet Bessie; as jialt' as a 
lily ; but what possessed yon to run away from us in all 
our troubles ? 

JBessle. I run away, sir ! Oh ! Paiiline nearly broke my 
heart by telling me that you were dead, and that the 
good Madam refused to see me. She bade me leave the 
house, and thinking I had lost all my friends, what could 
I do but obey ? Oh ! it seems a horrid dream to me. 

Madam. The wicked wretch. She told us you had 



Scene III.] BROWN BESSIE. 51 

been decoyed off by some 0})era troii j>e that travelled about 
tlie country. 

liaratoU. Neither Elva's devilish plots nor Pauline's 
malice shall part us again ; never, never, Bessie. [ Winds 
his ((.rin ahout her, and Uessie lays her hand in his. 

Madam. You must be married at once ; come, Bessie, 
do you hear ? I have bought bridal robes, and a crown 
of diamonds, siich as befits the bride of Baratoli. 

JJaratoIi. Yes, my beloved. 1 am impatient to call you 
my own. l£Jxit jSir WiUiam JJaratoIi, Madam, liessie. 

Knter Alma, vnth his prize picture o/" Mercy. 

Alma. Pardon my venturing into your presence again, 
once-loved Mercy. 

Jferci/. l^isli/i'.] Once loved ! 

Alma. In my ilisintiu'ested afiection I forgot that to 
you title and wealtli had arisen, forming an inseparable 
barrier between us. The treasured 'portrait I return, 
feeling that I have no longer a light to keep it. 

Mercy. Oh, Oscar, if you loved me still ; but no, no ; 
you desire to be released ; 1 tliought, — I heard you were 
the husband of another, and that is why — why 1 

Alma. [ ClasjHn(/ her in his arms.^ And vou love me 
still •? 

Enter Sir William Ayelton. 

Mercy. With my whole heart. 

>iSm' ^ViUiann. So ho ! so ho ! What is all this ? 

Mercy. Deai-est father, has not papa Wilde told you 
I was engaged to Mr. Alma before he left America for 
London '? 

/SirlVilliam. Not a lisp have I heard till now; I had 
my suspicions, however; but the very cool reception you 
gave Mr. Alma on your first meeting (piito lulled them. 

Mercy. A little misunderstanding, father, that is all. 

t^ir WdUam. [ To Alma?[ 1 can never lose my daughter, 
sir ; you understand '? 

Mercy. Perhaps you prefer gaining a sou, dear pa])a. 

Sir M^illiam. I clo, my child, ami you must make Mi-. 
Alma understand that, and sign the agreement. 



52 BROWN BESSIE. [Act IV. 

Alma. Anything, everything, so I only secure the fair 
one ! 

S'b- William. And now,- dear Mercy, I present you with 
the jewels designed for your mother years ago. 

[J-^reseiUs her loith a casket. 

Ahiia. And I am entrusted with a casket from your 
grandfather, Thomas Thorrington. It contains the jewels 
that were your mother's before marriage : he begs you will 
accept theiu as a gift from hev- [ ^t* /SirlJ'^ill'iain.^ Is it 
too much. Sir William, to ask you to forgive and grant 
the old man an interview ? 

[His br-ow darkens and he paces thejioor. 

Mercy. [Aside to Alma.'] Bring him in. I cannot be 
hapj>y till they ai"e reconciled. [Exit Alma. 

tSir William. [\Taking Jeioels from the box, 2^ resented by 

Thomas.] Put them on, dear child ! there ; I could 

fancy it was herself before me, you are so very like her. 

[JEtiter Thomas, folloioed by Alma. 

TIio)iH(s. [7h tSir Mllliam.] Can you not find it in 
your heart to foi'give one who has sulfered nearly as much 
as yourself? 

AFercy. Dear father, let me be the link that binds your 
two hearts together. [Takes a hand of each. 

Enter Baratoli, leading Bessie ; the Madam, Mr. and 
Mbs. Wilde, Will Littlepield, Rachel Snow, and 
2)rinc.ip(d characters. Merc;y leaves her father and grand- 
father, and joins hands with Alma, wlio stands beside 
Bessie a.nd Bakatoli in centre of the stage. 

WUl. [Aside.] Well, I guess I sha'n't get her after all. 
That confounded picture-painter is ahead of my time ? 
liochel. [Aside.] \ allers said I'd never marry youug. 



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